


The Wolf and the Peacekeeper

by W_H_4_T



Series: The Wolf and the Peacekeeper [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blasphemy, Blood and Injury, Combined Lavellan Adaar History, Dalish Accent, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Issues, Digital Art, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Humor, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Qunari Culture and Customs, Qunari Elf, Qunlat (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, Somniari, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:33:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 119,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25629022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W_H_4_T/pseuds/W_H_4_T
Summary: A lower-class, Qunari elf cross-breed and the Eldest Montilyet daughter? How scandalous!
Relationships: Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Female Inquisitor/Josephine Montilyet, Female Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet, Josephine Montilyet/Original Female Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: The Wolf and the Peacekeeper [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112504
Comments: 40
Kudos: 104





	1. "Is there something on my face?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I hope you like this take on everything. It's all self-indulgent bullshit but hey, have fun amirite? 
> 
> This is the first fic I've ever written ever.  
> I put a masterlist of all the songs i listen to that influence the chapters way at the end. If you want me to highlight in which chapters which song should be in the BG just lemme know and Ill do a lil changey changey right quick (yes I type in a way to purposely give people an aneurysm .)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste is not ordinary. 
> 
> What is she?
> 
> Well, at least she's funny. 
> 
> Annoying, prone to fits of malaise and melodrama.
> 
> But funny.

“ **Is there something on my face?”  
**  
The words were spoken bluntly; more of a statement than a question. One could see she had received those looks so often that the humour of the supposed quip lost all flavour. Cassandra hadn’t mentioned the...novelty of the Herald in any of her reports. She was an odd combination of things; black eyebrows, white hair, pointed ears, silvery grey skin, green eyes and the horns. Maker, the horns. Two curved prongs jutting from the top of her head. One would say she was a Qunari at first glance.  
  
That is if they hadn’t also noticed her remarkably _elfy_ features.  
  
That coupled with her height; not tall enough to be a Qunari not short enough to be an elf and not, well, _human_ enough to be anything close to human.  
  


“I suppose my beauty has rendered everYONE COMPLETELY MUTE!” the Herald said with a mischievous smile, the escalation in tone pulling everyone back into reality.  
  


To be fair, it was just the Commander and the Ambassador in complete surprise; Leliana and Cassandra were already well aware of the Herald’s personality and odd appearance.

  
Cassandra rolled her eyes at the Herald and made a gentle disgusted noise. Introductions are necessary now that the gawking is over.  
  
“This is Ser Cullen Rutherford, our chief Commander and,” the Seeker motioned at Josephine, “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our resident diplomat.”  
  
The Ambassador was jolted from her shock when she heard her name. Years of careful training in The Game masked her surprise but her curiosity was still hanging in the air; a feeling only Leliana picked up on with muted concern.

“Ah yes, I am pleased to see that you made it back unscathed from the Temple.” Cullen looked the Herald in the eye but darted his gaze elsewhere when her smile became wider.  
  
  
A magical Qunari Elf with a sarcastic, overly-eager, mischievous personality was supposed to be their saviour.  
  


The world was destined for doom if all hope rested on this _brat’s_ shoulders.  
  
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Josephine said with a nod of her head.  
  
The elf levelled her gaze to the Ambassador becoming serious _almost thoughtful_ for a second before muttering a soft, “Likewise.”  
  
“SO” the odd elf barked, “we got a Spymaster who won’t stop staring at me-”  
  


The Herald made a dramatic slow turn towards Leliana who regarded her with a blank stare.  
  


“A tall, grumpy Seeker, a tall, slightly less grumpy Commander and,” the elf turned her body towards each person she announced till she reached the last, “the Lady.”  
  
The Herald made a mockingly large bow towards Josephine; Cassandra gritted her teeth so as not to roar her disdain at the Herald’s flair for wasting time.

Josephine didn’t heed the Seeker’s growing frown as she gently curtseyed back.  
  
Maker, if the world truly was ending, at least one could enjoy the time they had left. That and the Herald seemed to have a way of pulling people into her antics.  
  


“If it is not discourteous to you,” Josephine spoke, “would Andaran atish’an be a suitable greeting?”  
  
The Herald shrugged but looked noticeably impressed, “Any greeting is fine but, I appreciate the open-mindedness.”  
  
The elf’s face quickly lit up again as she turned to Cassandra, “Damn she’s good at all this, this” she waved her arms widely to make a point, “cultural noticing stuff. Her Elven accent could uh....use a little work though but damn, she’s good.”  
  
Josephine wore a tempered smile, nothing too grand but she was certainly appreciative of the Herald’s bold wonderment and praise. She opened her mouth to respond to the kind words but was stopped by Leliana speaking first.  
  
“We should look to the matter at hand now that we’ve all been”, Leliana turned her eyes on Josephine for a split second; an amused accusation, “ _properly acquainted._ I have heard of a Chantry mother looking to assist our cause in the Hinterlands. I believe-Herald? Herald!”  
  
Such words should have garnered the attention of everyone but the Herald was staring at her left palm, her face gently mired by responsibility and not taking in a _word_ Leliana was saying.  
  
“I thought you said it doesn’t trouble you?” Cassandra stated in a halting manner towards the elf; angry but not enough to kill the Herald. Yet.  
  


The Herald nodded; face reflecting youth despite being older.  
  
“Sorry, sorry. I’m...I guess I’m still in shock.” The Herald’s face sobered, “I mean, me, Herald of Andraste? Me? Have you seen me? Yes, you have. And now this thing-” she turned her hand to show the green glow of the mark, “makes me some kind of saviour. Me? I-i’m....sorry I ramble when I get nervous. I laugh too. Alot...”  
  
For once, Cullen was the first to speak, “Herald, you have nothing to fear,” a small smile with kind eyes, “We will assist you all we can to ensure this Breach is closed.”

“Our Commander is right,” the Ambassador chirped, “you have our full support. Please, do not lose hope, Your Worship.”  
  
As if struck by some realization, the Ambassador turned her full attention to the Herald.  
  
“My Lady, may I ask, what is your full name?” Josephine dragged a thumb across the papers of her clipboard, scanning the pages as they flipped past for any clue.  
  
“Ah,” the Herald said, eyebrows lifted upwards as if completely taken aback by the question, “It’s an odd one but OH!”  
  
Again, the woman, the _girl_ -with the way she behaves it is truly hard to believe she is anything but- catches everyone by surprise; Josephine nearly launches her clipboard into poor Cullen.  
  
“We have a perfectly good Spymaster -Spymistress?- here,” The Herald’s enthusiasm has returned twice-fold much to the chagrin of The Seeker.  
  
“Tell me Mistress, what is” The Herald leans on the table towards Leliana, “my name?”  
  
Leliana pulls at her gloves nonchalantly, “Fen’Harel Adaar,” she turns her icy blue gaze at dancing green eyes, “odd that you are named after a Dalish trickster God, no?”  
  
“ _Oh no, not at all odd”_ Cassandra thought as her eyebrows furrowed “ _As it explains her blatant lack of regard for anything sacred.”_  
  
Fen’Harel claps at the mention of her name, appearing more akin to a Hyena than her Lupine namesake.

“BY the DREAD WOLF! Hahahah!!!! YES! You _ARE_ good at ferreting information!” Fen’Harel directs a wild grin at Josephine, “My dear Ambassador you better watch out! Our Mistress here knows more Elven than you!”

  
The Seeker is clenching and unclenching her jaw. Fen’Harel is lucky that Cassandra is not frothing at the mouth from the sheer procrastination of plotting their next goal.

Fen’Harel is giggling wildly as Josephine silently takes note of the newfound name. Noticing the scratching of ink, Fen’Harel leans over the table towards the Ambassador this time and adds, “I can be referred to by a variety of things, you choose what you will though, I am partial to Harel. Simple. Easy.”  
  
Josephine looks up from her board, eyes glittering from amusement, “as you wish, Mistress Adaar.”  
  
Harel crinkles her face at the title.  
  
“Ugh, so formal. Now it’s my turn to sound like Cassandra.”  
  
She turns her gaze to the Seeker and spins on the ball of her foot, making one rotation before speaking again.  
  
“I shall go to the Hinterlands first, never been, should be fun.” Harel looks up to the Seeker who has finally relaxed, as much as Cassandra is capable of relaxing, at the prospect of progress. She brushed off Harel’s statement of having fun; any more thoughts upon the cheerful disrespect of the childish woman may send her over the edge.

Harel claps her hands before she leaves, making her way past the doorway quickly only to pop her head back in to jape.  
  
“Your accent isn’t that bad, Ambassador.” Harel says with a gentle voice, “best I’ve ever seen a human speak the tongue. Proud.”  
  
The elf, the qunari, the amalgamation thereof, disappears once more behind the doorway as the council is left to shuffle out. Cassandra is the first to leave due to a sudden extreme desire to clobber the nearest training dummy to pieces. Cullen has an armoured hand on his brow as he walks wondering how this plucky little _thing_ can possibly be the Maker’s chosen.

“Maker, please let her mature quickly.” the Commander whispers under his breath as he clomps through the doorway.  
  
Leliana lingers back to catch Josephine as she leaves, a coquettish smile on the Spymaster’s face. A rare show of emotion for none but her closest friends.  
  
“She is entertaining at least,” the Spymistress says while gently elbowing Josephine, “and though she appears childish, she is at her core, wise; prone to fits of melodrama and melancholy, but she is without a doubt, wise.”  
  


* * *

  
_“Truly, is death the only answer?”  
  
Harel’s eyes were different as she gently pushed off the pole she was leaning against. Gone was the playful spark; now they burned like the Fade, green and tumultuous. And Angry. No, disappointed.  
  
“Spymistress, consider the path of Kost; of peace. If your anger is not stopped by the simple act of sparing a life then...your spy Butler, he may prove more useful alive.”  
  
“You do not understand! I can sacrifice one man’s life to save many, Herald! Is that not good? I am even opting for his death to be painless!”  
  
“Kost,” Harel speaks an octave lower, eyebrows pinching together, “you are a master of foresight, unlike the Seeker who, so far, is only capable of brute force.”  
  
Harel pauses, studying the Mistress. It is as though the elf has become a different person entirely, “You know tact, grace and wit. You of all people should know mercy when it's presented.”  
  
Mercy. Something Leliana was given so little of in her life. But she cannot simply wish to take, she must also give. A Dalish warden once spoke to her of mercy, of kindness, of love under Ferelden stars. She could not betray what she had to relearn. Not again. Her warden had to piece her back together once before. Never again.  
  
Leliana gave a strained sigh as she gave the order for Butler to be apprehended. She turned to face Harel, the foolish grin was substituted for a proud smile. A smile like Lyna’s.  
_  
Leliana had watched the elf leave; immediately turning back to her annoying, fun-loving ways.  
Though the woman behaved like a damnable jester, she harbours an eloquence, a kindness and peaceful nature befit of a spiritual scion of Andraste. Traits that she buries under that comedic veneer almost as if she were afraid that being serious too often would literally kill her. As a former bard, she can tell the woman’s emotions all too well, even when she believes she’s hidden them from sight; laughter as bait for the eye to see while the real self festers below just underneath; covered by the whisper of "Kost".  
  


* * *

  
  
“She is certainly not what I expected. I have never heard tell of anything close to her kin. A Qunari Elf...How many do you think exist?”  
  
Leliana was snapped from her reverie by Josephine’s question.  
  
“Not many I suppose, she may be the only one,” Leliana’s tone is thoughtful as they make the short steps to the Ambassador’s office, “though for the first of her kind, she truly has made an impact. The Maker has a sense of humour, sending us a Qunari Elf. Not even the one, but both.”  
  
Josephine hummed in approval as the Chantry doors opened, letting a fresh burst of cold air in. The Ambassador quickly wrapped arms around her shoulders to ward off the chill; Leliana was unfazed due to the frigid location of her own office.  
  
It was the elf. Harel. She was back. Mabari-like grin and all.  
  
“AMBASSADOR! HELLO! IT IS COLD OUTSIDE!” The echoes of Harel’s shout bounced around the lofty space.  
  
Through the earsplitting pain, Josephine hid a grimace behind her training again. She simply gave a small wave to the Herald who in turn waved back with a wild and wide fan of her arm.  
  
“CAN I SPEAK TO YOU PRIVATELY?!”  
  
Josephine heard Leliana mutter some choice Orlesian profanities under her breath after releasing a soft snort of laughter.  
  
“No sense of etiquette that one. Or maybe she is jesting again.” Leliana said as her gaze followed the bounding Herald.  
  
“Though she is _very_ lively, I would say that she has conducted herself properly without gaining the ire of others”  
  
Leliana gave Josephine a thin lipped look.  
  
“Well, Seeker Pentaghast is very adamant in her ways. But I will say, the Herald’s outlook is certainly preferable to a grim disposition.”  
  
For a moment, the mask slipped, a genuine look of kindness was cast at the Herald as she bounced towards them. Leliana could only roll her eyes at the display.  
  
“She truly is something else entirely.” Josephine said softly.  
  
“Oui, elle est un crétin” Leliana was quickly met with a light tap on her shoulder.  
  
“Shhhh! You fiend, she is coming here and you will hurt her feelings.” Josephine responded playfully.  
  
“Josie, I very much doubt she understands Orlesian”  
  
The Qunari elf straightened up in front of the pair; hands clasped behind her back.

“Hi, hello, might I inquire on where you keep the paper and quills?” she rapidly shook her head, shifting her braid from over her shoulder to behind her back, “ooh dizzy. Uh, yes, you are the diplomat so you would know where all the papers are. Can I please, please borrow some....oh yes and quills. And ink....just-”  
  
“I will see myself out” Leliana gave a polite nod of her head to the Herald and a sly look to Josephine which only a master of The Game could read.  
  
Leliana knew damn well the Herald had paper and ink in her hovel but she shan’t say a word. The woman was non-threatening so far but she would keep an eye on the pair; any changes and she’d be sure to have a chat with this horned elf.  
  
The dull taps of the Spymaster’s boots echoed down the hall as Harel tilted her head; expectant of an answer.  
  
“Mistress Adaar, may I ask why you did not go to our Quartermaster?”  
  
Harel quirked an eyebrow upwards at the question.

  
“I didn’t realize that Threnn had stuff like that. Thought her trade was swords and bitterness.”  
  
The Ambassador exhaled an amused breath, “I do not believe our Quartermaster would appreciate those sentiments, My Lady.”  
  
“That’s why you need to keep it a secret; use it later as some kind of charismatic leverage against me. Noble-y things and such.”  
  


Harel smiled brighter as the Ambassador finally grinned. An honest to Maker grin. Teeth and all. Her eyes squinted slightly when she grinned, making them sparkle more. It brought out the hazel yellow rings near her pupils and _Mythal_ , she had gold everywhere, even in her eyes.  
  


“I assure you, any secret of yours will be taken to my pyre.” Josephine twirled the quill in her fingers with an odd amount of dexterity for a clerk.  
  
“Ah, comme c'est dramatique.” Harel sighed.  
  
It was Josephine’s turn to be surprised again, eyebrows raised and delightful eyes questioning.  
  
“You speak Orlesian?”  
  
“Just enough to know when the Mistress calls me a donkey.”  
  
Josephine nearly snorted but Ladies do not snort.  
  
If Harel was born human and into nobility, she could see her charming the wittiest remarks and become a darling to The grand Game.  
  
The courts have truly lost a gem if they believe the qunari and elves to be nothing but savages...  
  
The Ambassador was fighting back laughter. It seemed as though Harel was more observant than Leliana gave her credit for. That or she spoke the jape close enough to her on purpose. The Spymaster still had a desire for fun even if it was buried down deep.  
  
“I hear everything, I’ve got **big fucking ears** like a donkey too-Oh, wait propriety. Sorry. Cussing. Not good. Uh. Uh.” Harel scrambled for words while the Ambassador attempted to regain control of her faculties.  
  
Harel turned her eyes to the laughing figure. She should laugh more this one. It suits her. Like Gold. Pretty. Glittery. Real.  
  
“Mistress Adaar, I will excuse your profanity for now but please, do come in. I am certain I have enough paper and ink for your tasks.”  
  
“Nonsense, after you, My Lady.” Harel extended her hands towards the open door, horns nearly pointing their way into her office.  
  
“As you wish.” Josephine said with a nod and smile.  
  


* * *

  
  
Laughter. Hours of laughter is all that could be heard in the Chantry walls; like a ghost wailing, a beautiful, Antivan ghost. It was laughter reserved for family; bright, chattering belly laughs that normally came from the appearance of inside jokes. But no, this elf managed to pry off her mask, discard her years of control and training by just simply....talking.  
Even after the writing implements were quickly seized, Adaar’s departure didn’t occur until much later. One would think she was a Spirit of Happiness with the way she commanded the conversation; flipping it in just the right way to make the Ambassador’s body shiver with giggles that begged to be freed. From the delighted grey hazel of her eyes to the tawny skin, to the wavy black hair that caught the firelight to the slender ink-stained fingers that lightly pressed against the curve of her _perfect_ mouth, The Herald was enraptured.  
  
She couldn’t look away much like how Josephine couldn’t stop spluttering with laughter.  
  
Harel noticed the strong blush splay across her all too lovely face; _“Something real. Be more real more often, please. It suits you...”_  
  
“M-my Lady,” the Ambassador said through tears, “though you are _thoroughly_ prolific in the art of comedic storytelling, I must say the hour is unfortunately late.”  
  
The Herald opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it immediately. No need to overstay your welcome, Harel, leave while it’s good.  
  
“I see, well, do have a good night Lady Montilyet, and pleasant dreams and such” Harel spoke with a grin as she gathered up the items and got off the visitor’s chair.  
  
“Mistress Adaar?”  
  
Harel turned her body to face the Ambassador, a soft smile in place, inwardly happy she was being kept back, “Yes?”  
  
“It appears you have made off with my quill.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay i made two horrible (supposed to be Tarot card-like) sketch of my fucked up Inquisitor and put it here. I want to self combust.
> 
> I keep hearing my Inquisitor talk in an Irish/Welsh accent like the Dalish from DA2
> 
> Hey. You. Yes you. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Come back soon, ok? I'll get a fresh batch ready for you in no time (I hope)


	2. Your Laugh is like Leaves, Incense and the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald drinks though she absolutely can't hold her liquor.  
> Sera japes.  
> The Herald stumbles around Haven like a dolt, waxing poetic.  
> Bull tries to help even if the Herald is wary of him.  
> She speaks of Kost in the moonlight, through drunken stumbles to the Ambassador and once through a sea of dreams. 
> 
> She tries to make the Antivan laugh for it reminds her of leaves, incense and the sea. 
> 
> A fun night all around.

“Like an August Ram given rage, she burst from the fray, cut them down one by one, till only a circle of death lay”. Maryden was waxing poetic again. Harel didn’t really see herself as a force of nature like how the Qunari was described. Then again, she wasn’t _exactly_ a Qunari.

Yes, she did indeed love storm magic but _she_ wasn’t storm magic itself. When Maryden breathed the word August Ram, Harel had chuckled thinking that she could have used Ox or Halla or even Wolf if she was clever enough.

Then again, it wasn’t the kindest of words; the minstrel may see herself out of a job if she spoke ill so blatantly in front of the Herald. She did agree that her horns resembled the August Ram’s. Then again, a dragon would have been a better comparison. Dragon is _always_ better.

“Do you have anything that won’t have me seeing double for a week, Flissa?” Harel gestured at her still full mug, “I can’t close Rifts if Bull has to carry me on his back the whole way.”  
  
Flissa placed both elbows on the table, eying the Herald apologetically.

  
“So sorry, ‘erald, that’s the best tap we’ve got. If you want I can give it a toss”  
  
Harel raised a hand at the barmaid, a thin-lipped smile on her face.  
  
“It would be a waste, besides,” Harel eyed the liquid as it- _was it frothing or bubbling?_ -sloshed against the lip, “I think this Breach business will have me in a tavern more often. Might as well grow accustomed.”  
  
The qunari elf clapping her hands together and stared down at the bitter, terribly strong mead.  
  
“Dread Wolf take me.” Harel said in a defeated tone before downing the swill in several gulps. Her diaphragm bobbed as if she was going to cough between several sips but she stayed adamant. Slamming the drained mug down and coughing fitfully earned her a loud cheer from the tavern; Sera’s distinct chortling could be heard cutting through the crowd.  
  
“You serious? Thas gonna mess you up good n proper, Elfy.” she said inching towards a raggedly breathing Harel, “Good to see you’re people, yea”  
  
Sera clapped a small hand on Harel’s back which only caused her coughing to increase.  
  
Harel shielded her coughs with an inner elbow while raising her marked hand in a thumbs up. When the coughing finally subsided, she looked up to Sera with unfocused eyes, a ruddy hue beginning to shine on her greyish cheeks.

“How the fuck is it starting to hit me now.” Harel said with a hand on her forehead.

  
“You needa drink more offen ya prat. You dunno how to hold your water,” Sera leaned in far too close for comfort, “and _that_ also makes you people.”  
  
Harel braced herself on the bar table, the full effects of the swill beginning to seep in. She motioned to get up but as she balanced on the balls of her feet, the room spun just enough to make her clatter back down on the stool. It was hitting her _hard and fast._ Maybe it was a mage thing, this intolerance; she could never handle her cup back in Valo-Kas and was normally the hangover helper, not the hangover getter.  
  
Sera was beside herself with laughter.  
  
“Look at you, all fancy charm n crazy eyes till a lil’ swill comes n knocks your breeches off,” Sera’s face blazed with red as her cackling prolonged, “Bloody daft!!!”  
  
Harel took a swing at the elf but she was a rogue after all and leapt easily away from the blow. That’s when Harel conjured a small spark to her fingertip. Sera immediately straightened up.  
  
“Quit your magic shite, aye, you’re ruinin’ a perfectly good laugh. Coulda swore you liked those.”

“I do, I do,” The Herald’s voice began to get heavy, “but it makes _me_ laugh so much more when you jump, as you like to say, _wet and runnin’_ at the first sign of magic.”  
  
Sera scrunched up her face and held up a two-fingered salute, “yea yea, har de har, friggin eat it. I’m out if yer bringing Fadey shite to the party.”

The city elf trailed back to her regular spot and leaned against the wall, eyes still on Harel.

“It doesn’t count as leaving if you’re **still in the building** , Sera.” she said through the giggles which have just _appeared_ with no end in sight. _  
  
_Her horns felt too heavy in that moment and she lay her face on the counter; ignoring Flissa’s worrying tone. She felt the Fade pulling her, the spirits whispering, the demons watching. She could feel it reminding her, pulling her towards her own mind, reflecting her own life back at her like a mirror shining back the sun’s rays.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
_Small hands against large palms, guiding, teaching. Again, Tama. I know, I know, you do not believe, but it was your wish, a wish to be closer to what you are. I will teach you as much as I can. Try again._  
  
_‘Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.’_

_And what does it mean, Tama?_  
  
_‘Struggle is an illusion.” green eyes look up to calm brown, “The tide rises, the tide falls but...um”_  
  
_A smile again. A hand placed on the parchment over the small one, finger tracing spiked writing; akin to a dragon’s back._

_But the sea is changeless. Take what you can from what you learn. No need for the rest for it speaks only of the Qun. I am no longer, you were never. Let us begin anew for the sea is there, as is the Fade. It waits for us, Tama. It waits for us to brace its storms, it is life._  
  
_A kiss pressed to a young brow and the whisper of a word._  
  
_Kost._  
  
_Eyes blinking, too large, too gentle like the Kost-Dathras in the homeland, but he knows too well, Ataashi lays beneath; always waiting, always seething._

  
_When will you let anger go? You are not whom they curse you to be. You are Tama as I am Taashath. We are more than what we are called to be. That is the glory of freedom from the Qun._  
  
_She scans the page and points a finger to a word on the parchment, curling ink doubling in on itself,_  
  
_“Kost” she says, recognizing the pattern._  
  
_He smiles, hand flitting between words, yes, Kost._

_Peace, Kadan, Peace._

_May it fill you when the sea is stormy._

_May it teach you when the Fade asks and you have no answers._

_When all is lost, you must rekindle light so I pray you are happy for there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of leaves where there was once rain._  
  
_And your laugh, it is like leaves to me. Leaves, incense and the sea._

* * *

  
_  
_ Harel blinked slowly, shaking the sleep away, only to find that she was looking at the stars. Looks like that swill fucked her up good and proper. She slowly sat up, guts groaning and head aching. Her hand came across her eyes, the stars were too bright, everything was too bright.

“Sleep well, Boss?”  
  
Harel stiffened at the tone for it belonged to a man she had concerns about.  
  
“You didn’t try to kill me in my sleep, Ben-Hassrath? I’m surprised,” she looked up at the hulking beast who sat near the bedroll laid by his tent, tongue still heavy from the swill, “Though I'm the Herald, I'm still Saarebas and Vashoth, I would expect no leniency.”  
  
Bull gave a grin but there was no warmth, “You and I know I can’t do that. That thing on your hand is one reason.”  
  
“And you're not an Arvaarad. You have no leash on me.”  
  
Bull sighed and placed a large hand on her shoulder, the weight alone sent her back down.  
  
“The Issqun Ben-Hassrath said you were a cunning, charismatic half-breed. A mage yes, but you were a joking sort, the type to get your mind broken for your tongue. Quick to speak and prattle.” Bull stared out at the uneven frozen lake, bathed in a sickly green, “Where’s that insufferable humour gone?”

Harel’s eyes stayed fixed on the stars, their glow slowly dying into the pinkish-orange of dawn. Silence was their barrier, a wall that Bull was willing to test.  
  
_“_ _ **Who died?”**_ Bull asked in Qunlat  
  
At the sound, the Herald sat upright in the bedroll lazily and regretted the action immediately as nausea overtook her senses. She groaned as she curled her head into her knees.  
  
_“_ _ **No one.”**_ Harel said through the fabric of her pants.  
  
_“_ _ **I heard you say the Prayers for the Dead in your sleep. Very little but enough for me to recognize.”**_ _  
  
“_ _ **No one died I was young, I was learning the tongue. The Prayers for the Dead were written and I had the book."  
  
“Then who is Taashath?**_ _”_ _ **  
  
**_Harel bit her lip softly before speaking, face blank, _“_ _ **I am not at peace discussing such with you.”**_ _  
  
_The Ben-Hassrath dropped his questioning. He would find out more sooner.  
  
_“_ _ **I will take my leave, Heart of the Many”**_ _  
__**  
“Take refuge in safety, Dangerous Thing”**_ _  
  
_The words rankled on Harel’s mind but she cast it off. Companions need to be on the same level, there is no room for animosity when a fuck-huge hole in the sky threatens Thedas. The Herald ran her fingers down her face and then looked back to Bull.  
  
“Hassrath, how did I reach here?”  
  
Bull took that as an excuse to flex his arms, “I carried you. Sera came up earlier, saying you spilled a cold one. I’d admit, I’m a little mad you didn’t invite me but DAMN you really can’t hold your drinks, ey Boss.”  
  
Harel massaged the sore skin around her horns. She was most likely not going to be able to get up later. She made movements to get up but Bull’s next words stopped her cold.  
  
“Never took you for a romantic boss. All the sweet, sweet words about your Ambassador”  
  
The Herald lay back down, her head hurting all too much and her stomach; too cold like she was weaving frost spells in her belly.  
  
_“_ _ **Oh, how she lights the room, like the sun, in blues and golds like a morning sky. You lift me, glorious one, with your wings of grace and feathered quills. Smile more, but only for me, for you are where my heart resides.”**_ _  
  
_Bull made extra sure to cast one hand to the dawning sky and waver his voice just right, like a brutish poet given breath.  
  
“You fuckin prick” Harel said through gritted teeth, silently thankful he recited in Qunlat so that no eavesdropping bastards could hear.  
  
“It’s in Qunlat _because_ you only spoke in Qunlat, you lucky fuck. I swear you love metaphor more than the Qun itself." Bull noticed Harel's growing impatience by the way the air shifted with magic, "You have no idea where I hefted you from, do you?”  
  
“The tavern?” Harel squeaked, a forearm tossed over her eyes.  
  
For a moment only the wind of the Frostbacks could be heard as well as the telltale shuffle of Harel’s mount. A gentle din came from the tavern but Bull kept his eye on the Herald, a smile stretching wider with every second.

* * *

  
  
“WHEEEEEEEEEEEY!!!”  
  
Out of the many things to be expected that night, a loud, cheerful roar from the Tavern was not one. Normally, people were too afraid, to silent and laden with stress to even consider anything less than a heavy drink and a restless night. This night, however, brought the promise of joy.

The Herald was making fantastic progress, finding Mother Giselle, assisting the refugees and being an overall stalwart -if not a little sardonic- face for the Inquisition.  
  
_“A beautiful, knowledgable ram and a sweet gentle Druffalo, My Lady.” Harel had said with excitement in her voice, “I SWEAR TO FU- i mean.Uh...UH. The ram, his name was Lord Woolsley CAN YOU BELIEVE? A RAM? NAMED THAT?! I made sure to give a biiiiig bow," she punctuated her sentence with the raising of her index finger, "to the noble creature lest he headbutt me into the void.”  
  
She drummed her hands on her knees, grey face red with laughter; chattering like a hyena circling carrion.  
  
"Oh and Druffy was soooooo cuuuuteee! Big, giant eyes looking up at me when we walked! She even licked my palms when I fed her some apples!" Harel had both hands on her cheeks as she swayed back and forth; gushing, "Damn, I had half a mind to just heft her over my shoulder and scarper!"  
  
_Josephine recalled how starstruck the Herald was by her time in the Hinterlands. She seemed to like the fauna there immensely and though she dare not say it out loud, the Antivan questioned if her adoration for the area came from her Elven blood.  
  
_“I am pleased to know that even in this trying time that you find joy," Josephine smiled but then a question came to hovering on her lips, "Mistress Adaar, how...how did you know the ram to be wise?”  
  
Harel had just shrugged her shoulders, a laugh pealing from her greyish lips, “His owner said he gave good advice which is true considering the ram trod all around some blood lotus, the EXACT herb we fuc- um. W-we needed.”  
  
Harel coughed gently into her hand to try and prevent anymore swears from flying out. Mercenary tongue to be blamed probably.   
  
_Josephine remembered how she had to stifle a laugh with the back of her hand and the Herald simply watched her.  
  
_“I have no qualms with you laughing. Everyone has to let loose. Besides, isn’t that what you Antivan’s strive for?” the elf’s gaze burned her; a ferocity of truth that had previously remained dormant. “Exhuberance?”  
  
_Maker, when that woman spoke with legitimate reason, she made every word count as if she laced magic in those syllables.

The raucous laughter outside brought her attention back. It was muffled through two sets of doors, as she worked tirelessly by candlelight; undisturbed. Leliana had stopped by to check on her as the sky grew dark, brow only lightly pinched by concern.  
  
“Josie, you will strain your eyes if you continue at this pace. Run along to bed.” the Spymaster had chided”  
  
“and you will become a true recluse if you continue hoarding secrets, but I do not lecture you on your work now, do I?”  
  
“And are you staying up to finish your missives or to wait for a certain horned elf to regale you with tales.”  
  
Blasted Leliana, always assuming.  
  
“How about you leave me to my missives and I will retire at an appropriate time; regardless of tales.”  
  
Leliana said nothing as she checked over her gloves, her hood was down for once, her red hair sticking out in odd angles. Ah, the atrocities of hood hair.  
  
The Spymaster watched her friend with sharp eyes; the Herald had been giving their Ambassador nothing but doe eyes but Josie, _sweet oblivious romantically handicapped Josie,_ is immune to such charms as a player of the Game. The Herald will have to try much harder if she is indeed _truly_ interested in her.  
  
And if she was? Well. She will need to think of a way to put her in her place that doesn’t involve killing Thedas’ only hope.  
  
“If you are certain you are staying up, then please take note that our dear storyteller is attempting to drink that Chasind Sack Mead The Iron Bull brought with him.” the Spymaster leaned against the doorframe, a conniving smirk on her lips.  
  
Josephine tucked the quill into her inkpot and laced her fingers together; thumbs meeting her forehead, then temples.  
  
“May I assume its potency is...formidable?” The Ambassador said through a tired sigh  
  
“From the looks of her, I will be surprised she can still speak tomorrow.”  
  
The last thing they needed was a diplomatic incident, their saviour stumbling dead drunk through Haven. Leliana rapped her knuckles on the door, garnering the Antivan’s attention.  
  
“I will say the people will love her more for this display, they will see her less as a thing and more as a person,” Leliana turned her head towards the Chantry doors, “they will see she not some blaspheming oxen knife-ear. Rather, a friend to the people instead of just a means for an end or a ploy for power.”  
  
An interesting idea. In fact, it would make a good banner to rally behind. An earthly saviour despite her appearance. No one had to tell her twice; the spark of inspiration flowed through Josephine as she plucked a fresh parchment page and retrieved her quill. She began scratching down notes; a friend of the people, less a stagnant symbol of hope or a Maker-born Herald but a strong-willed, righteous person much like the tales of Grey Wardens; pulled from their normal lives to answer the call of duty. They could spread the word!  
  
_Fear not the Qunari Elf who pulled herself from the Fade, who battles the Breach, for she is like us, she bleeds and cries for our dead; she is more than the mark on her hand, she is one of us._

Hopefully, this will make her seem less frightening to the newcomers at Haven. That and get rid of some of the gawking, non-human wary behaviour the Herald has had to put up with.

The Spymistress huffed a short laugh knowing that when her friend got in these moods, there was no way to break her concentration till she was done.  
  


* * *

  
  
And so the candle burned down, not once, but twice. The Ambassador set aside her upsettingly large sheaf of papers to send to the various gentry about their Herald. Surely, a mortal approach may convince them that this odd creature is not as frightening or blaspheming as they would believe.

“ _ **I COME BEARING MYSELF!!!”**_ Came a voice from the Chantry halls. It was a very familiar shout that she didn’t expect to hear so late at night. The language, however, was completely lost on Josephine.  
  
Slurred, unbecoming drunken babble.  
But familiar.  
  
The creaking of the door followed by it slamming open was how she was greeted by the Herald. Her eyes were wide and wild, wilder and wider than usual. The grin she wore teetered between overly happy and struggling to keep a laugh in.

She also had a pair of breeches hanging off her horns but the Antivan couldn’t even open her mouth to gape or even gently chide at the cloth. She was that surprised, by, well, everything.  
  
_“_ _ **Ah, the beautiful lady! How are your battles with the Basra!**_ _”  
  
_Nope, nothing. She understood not a jot. Even the very, _very_ minuscule lessons in Qunlat Harel had given over the War Table hadn’t helped.

“My Lady,” Josephine started, voice wavering with curiosity and amusement, “why are you stumbling drunk through Haven?”  
  
Harel brought a hand to her head as she twirled around, nearly falling through Minaeve’s creature table and pushed the door in with her foot. The breeches flew off into some dark corner, never to be seen again.

Josephine took a mental note to ensure they were gone before the next dignitary stopped by or else she would have quite the explaining to do. That and the Inquisition did not need any scandals popping up where they could be quashed.  
  
_“_ _ **I come bearing myself yes? All that I am to you, where my heart lies!”**_ Harel paused to hiccup, _“_ _ **Smile more please, throw away that mask! Laugh like I’ve seen as**_ _**I saw no illusion!”  
**__  
_ The Ambassador shifted herself upwards, chair squeaking as it’s pushed back.  
  
“Come now, you’re not in a correct state to be walking. What if you trip and break your horns?”  
  
Harel struggled with her voice slightly before she found the right words; searching in Josephine’s eyes for the rings of gold she saw before.  
  
“Qunari horns are damn strong, My Lady. Damn strong. It would take a battleaxe to chop through!”  
  
“If you say so then I will believe you,” The Ambassador said stepping forward to help stabilize the rambling elf, “for I know nothing of Qunari anatomy and I am sure you are an expert on this topic.”  
  
Josephine lay gentle hands on Harel’s forearms, her skin burning from the mead. That or her abilities as a mage was spiralling with the lack of control.  
  
And that’s when she saw it.  
  
In the firelight, which licked over Harel’s greyish skin, making it shine akin to Obsidian, showed the telltale signs of a blush. Someone with an untrained eye would not have caught it but of course, The Game teaches you to sharpen your senses like a blade.  
  
It could only mean one thing.  
  
The poor Herald was burning up from her intolerance to the drink. What if she was having an allergic reaction? The elf needed rest before she hurt herself falling downstairs. That and a rag on her head to cool her skin. 

She took the elf’s arm and began to lead her, only stopping short when Harel almost brought them both to the ground. Josephine couldn’t help but chuckle lightly as she tried to right the Herald’s position.

“ _ **You have this lovely laugh, like a bolt of storm from the Fade fizzling on the sand, making glass. A laugh that reminds me of leaves, incense and the sea.**_ _”  
  
_Josephine could only make out the one word that had been spoken in Common Tongue; Fade. Maybe she was speaking of her magic, a dream perhaps? The Herald stumbled once more but caught herself, one hand on a rippled silk shoulder the other on a leather corset.  
  
It was now Josephine’s turn to blush.  
  
“Ir abelas. I am sorry.”  
  
Finally some common tongue. Somewhat.

They stood closely, Harel refusing to loosen her grip on her clothing, the hand on her shoulder pressed on skin covered by cloth. And then, the unthinkable.  
  
A chin, gently rested next to her heavy chain. Well, now she was certainly stuck. Harel was much taller than the Ambassador and certainly more solid. She rested peacefully with only the whispers of _“Kost”_ against her ear.  
  
Maker, if she didn’t burst into flame by the next second, she would count herself lucky. It was certainly not proper behaviour and the Ambassador hoped desperately that no one would come upon them.  
  
“-by my tent maybe?”  
  
Well, the Maker has a sense of humour.

  
A deep voice could be heard from behind the Chantry doors. She never thought she’d be so happy to see that walking incident waiting to happen. The Iron Bull, grinning his life away after chatting with a healer about something tawdry no doubt.  
  
He walked, hand clasped together as the mage stared him down.  
  
He stopped when Harel spat something particularly nasty at him in Qunlat, breath still catching on the Antivan’s ear.  
  
“I’m here to pick up that foul-mouthed Herald of yours. Seems like you need a hand”, Bull raked his eye over the pair as he tried to suppress a chuckle.  
  
Harel tightened her grip slightly as Bull approached, Josephine turned her head towards Harel as much as the space restraints would allow.  
  
“It seems as though The Iron Bull has come to take you to bed. I am looking to do the same so, Mistress Adaar, if you please?”  
  
The slight heartbreak in Harel’s eyes made her feel awful. She couldn’t tell why, but those big green puppy eyes looked at her like....like.....like a Druffalo. A gentle Druffalo. Maybe that’s why Harel was so attached to them.  
  
“Come now, you cannot truly expect me to sling you about my shoulder? I am no warrior.” The Ambassador began to pry the Herald’s fingers from her corset, reminding her of actions she had taken years ago in Antiva City. How she clung to her mother’s skirts begging not to go to finishing school and the inevitable snap of her mother’s voice _“Andrai e starai bene!”_ which set her straight.  
  
Oh, how the past comes around.

“ _ **You’re fucking hopeless. Let go and get over here.”**_ _  
  
“_ _ **You ask so much, Heart of the Many.”**_ Harel replied sullenly as she opened her arms wide and sidestepped past Josephine only to walk straight into Bull.  
  
  
He wrapped one massive hand around her waist and another on her thigh as he lifted her easily onto his shoulder.  
  
“Same time next week, Ambassador?” Bull said with a wink of his good eye.  
  
Josephine gave him a slight shake of her head, accompanied by a laugh.  
  
“I do hope not, though it was indeed educational. She spoke much of the Qunari language I believe. An interesting speech if I may add.” Josephine did not meet Bull’s eyes as she spoke further; softer, “And she is rather tactile when she loses her faculties.”  
  
Bull let out a hearty chuckle, the movement made Harel groan as the new position pushed against her stomach. Bull hushed her in Qunlat but Harel retaliated; a slow drawl of a word which made her snort an unladylike Sera laugh.  
  
“Taarsidath-an halsaam” she said languidly  
  
Bull swatted her thigh to hush her as the Ambassador was about to inquire.  
  
“No, no, you **do not** want to know what that means. Come on, Saarebas, let’s get you nice and cuddled up.”  
  
“Yaaaaaaaaaaaay” was all she could muster as she wiggled around on Bull’s shoulder. “  
  
He walked his large frame away, Harel waving at Josephine with heavy eyes and a lopsided smile.  
  
Of course, the Ambassador waved back and sighed deeply as she heard the doors of the Chantry close. Harel, The Herald, Adaar, she was an anomaly. Wherever she went, she tried to make everyone smile and left warmth that was quickly fleeting.  
  
If she could avoid a public display of indecency, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she became so thrashed again. She did have an impossible job to do, a little vice now and then would not be the end of the world...unless she couldn’t awaken to seal the Breach that is.  
  
Josephine smoothed her hair back into place as she made her way to the quarters she shared with the Seeker and Leliana. Hopefully, there would be no questions from the Spymaster; all too eager to skip a night’s sleep to hear any of Josie’s escapades.  
  


* * *

  
  
“What in the great swinging balls of the Maker do you mean that it was ‘the show of a lifetime’? ”  
  
Harel was now nursing a headache and chundering for all the eye to see by Bull’s tent.  
  
“I mean, you didn’t scare her away, Boss. Plus your romantic Qunlat was pretty good from what I hear.”  
  
“What do you me-”  
  
“Ben-Hassrath. Have you already forgotten what I can do, Saarebas? I have eyes and ears in other places too.” Bull said with a wicked smile.  
  
Harel rubbed her bloodshot eyes and held her head up, white tendrils clinging to a sweaty forehead.  
  
_**“I come bearing myself!”** _Bull said joyfully as Harel made a weak attempt to punch his lights out. He caught her wrists and motioned to sling her over his shoulder.  
  
“Nooooo not agAAAAIIIIIN!!!!!!” Harel cried weakly as Bull propped her up on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Cassandra witnessed the display and massaged her forehead. Harel’s horse snuffled a light breath on her face as she reached out a hand to caress its mane.  
  
“He is taking me away again, the bastard.” she said to the mount  
  
“Storm’s Coast, remember? We need to deal with those Hesserian whatever the fucks.” Bull said as he gripped Harel’s thigh and paraded her around, “Now let’s go get you a delicious potion for your hangover. Maybe you can get your bald pal to do some elfy magic shit.” Krem hooted at the fallen Herald as she raised a two-fingered salute to everyone who wanted to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so very fucking cringe but you didn't come here to hear that.
> 
> Having fun. I appreciate the good vibes. thanks. either way yea I'm big into reading gaming lore which is why we're in the situation we're in now. Qunlat is fun. I hope to write more. 
> 
> The incense part came from something Sten says in DA:O. Ferelden smells like wet dog but Seheron smells like tea, incense and the sea. 
> 
> I like to believe that as Leliana said, Josephine is a fucking dolt when it comes to any form of romantic anything. Make more cow eyes at her Harel, that might work.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Come back soon, you hear? oh and translations.
> 
> andrai e starai bene- You will go and you will be fine  
> Basra- rude terms for non-qunari  
> Kost-peace  
> Ben-Hassrath- Heart of the Many  
> Kost-Dathras- Means peaceful cattle. I put two words together ye ye.  
> Taarsidath-an halsaam- "I will bring myself sexual pleasure later, while thinking about this with great respect." (Yall know this one)  
> Taashath-Calm


	3. It is like art given life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hedge mages are dangerous beasts indeed. 
> 
> Fighting is different but beauty is in all things no matter the form.  
> One spins cresting lightning like the Maker's hand.  
> The other spins words and flowing ink like the waves of the sea.
> 
> In and out like the tide. Meraad astaarit, Meraad itwasit.

Fists curling then uncurling, arms outstretched, one further than the other. Legs spread, solidly planted. Left foot or?  
  
_Heel back, arms loose. Let the mana carry you._ _Fight with the power of our_ _leashed_ _kin._ _  
  
_She felt the familiar thrum in her veins and her palms tingled; summoning the storm. Bull watched with a careful eye, he wasn’t too keen on sparring with a mage, especially a Saarebas; a hedge mage. Harel used no staff though she has been asked many times to. Her ability brings fear to the normal folk who are wary of magic, especially after the Conclave. Knowing that she can summon a spark at any moment without the help of a staff makes the people gossip and fret more.  
  


Saarebas in the Qun don’t use staves, they are trained by their Arvaarad to harness and channel their ability; their body being the catalyst (but only activated by their holder).

Though Saarebas are forced to focus their power towards one aspect alone, a follower of this practice can use it for all schools of magic though it is difficult, dangerous and time-consuming. Either long range or close combat fighting can easily rip a mage’s body apart if one doesn’t take extreme caution. Once control is found, there is no need for a magic stick. There is only need for balance and temperance.  
  
Harel clenched her jaw as she took position. The soldiers were still clashing swords, but she could feel the eyes of many on her. The people spoke of her; often in hushed whispers, spreading rumours of her strange mage techniques but never seeing it up close. Her ear twitched as she caught the word in a civilian's timbre, “Halla”. Here she thought pulling these damn rifts closed would at least stop people from-  
  
Cullen swung his dulled sword, catching her unawares and using it to his advantage.  
  
They were outside Haven’s walls, in the large space next to the soldier’s tents, lumber moved to the side so they could get some training in.  
  
Harel shifted her weight to her back leg, pushing her torso backwards enough to dodge the blow easily. Following the sway of her movements, she used her front foot to carve a line of sparks with a high kick. Cullen raised his shield, pushing the metal upwards instead of forwards so as not to catch the storm in his eyes.  
  
This is why she sparred with a Templar, they knew how to combat magic, even if its delivery was not conventional. It would make her training harder, but after a rogue Templar nearly broke her skull with his pommel, she needed all the practice she could get. Using the shower of sparks as a distraction, Harel planted her hands to the ground and lifted her body up enough to swing and catch momentum in her legs, shoving a solid kick to the shield.  
  


The Commander swung his sword at the opening where her arms were but, again, she was gone like a bird taking flight; pushing her arms up to send her backwards and away from the blow.  
  
“It isn’t very inspiring when our Herald is so keen to evade and not attack!” Cullen shouted over the noise of other training soldiers.  
  
Harel straightened herself, dusting off the leather of her enchanter’s mail. She bared her teeth, grinning manically, eyes wide, as she started hopping with vigour.  
  
_With no staff to quickly change our magic,_ _w_ _e must form the shape with our bodies. Fire is brought by a racing heart, the faster the beat, the hotter the flame.  
_  
With a shake of her hands, fire danced its way down both arms; snaking and coiling orange over the anchor’s green flare.  
  
“SO YOU WANT ME TO FUCK YOU UP, STANTON?!” Harel shouted far, far too loud, “BEST HAVE A SAFEWORD READY!”  
  
Cullen couldn’t count the number of inward sighs he’s had since the Herald became the Herald. The amount grew when she found out his middle name after surreptitiously asking the Ambassador. Maker help him, the diplomat was only too happy to help.  
  
_“Stanton?” Harel_ _had_ _said with a snorting laugh, “_ _No wonder you’re so grumpy, you’re named like an old man_ _._ _”  
  
_Harel drew one fist back, palm open, then punched, propelling a fireball at Cullen who raised his Templar shield to deflect the heat. As he lowered his shield, he spied Harel already running off to his side, most likely getting ready to Fade Step to close the distance.  
  
He readied his sword and charged, meeting her half-way as ice formed on the ground from a disrupted Step. Metal met metal as Harel’s vambrace, designed especially for her fighting style, skidded sparks and across the iron. She raised her other hand, coating it with lightning before bringing her palm down on the Commander’s shield. When nothing happened, Cullen peered at her from behind the shield with sweat on his furrowed brows and a knowing smile.  
  
“Thought you could shock me into dropping the shield?” he said through strained pants, ”They teach us about mage tricks in Templar training too. Varghest Scales lining in my armour stops it dead in its tracks.”  
  
Harel gave a hyena-chuckle, high and predatory as Cullen pushed his shield up and swung his sword back around. It would have nearly caught Harel in her side if she hadn’t spun on the balls of her feet, away from the blow.  
  
  
Well, now they knew that all her dancing around was good for something.  
  


“You nug-humping fuck,” the Herald cajoled, “now Bull’s going to have the upper hand when I ask him to spar.”  
  
She made sure to speak a little too loudly so that the horned giant could grunt derisively at her.  
  
“I’m strictly two-handed, and you know that, Boss,” Bull retaliated lazily, “I don’t need Templar crap when I could just skewer you on a big fucking stick.”  
  
Harel brushed the hair from her sweaty forehead, feeling too warm in such cold climes.  
  
  
_Control. Control. Lest you immolate from the inside.  
  
_  
Harel took a deep breath, calming her frenzy before turning her eyes to Bull.  
  
“Ah, shove it up your big grey ass, Hassrath.”  
  
“I think you mean Tiny, if Varric is anything to go by.” the Qunari spy added.  
  
Harel made a frown that would put the Seeker to shame, “That damn dwarf and his nicknames! The man insists on calling me _Crazy_! I fu-”  
  
  
Before she could finish her sentence, Cullen charged, bashing her hard with his shield, knocking the breath from her sentence and sending her rolling down the snowy path. Like most things she did, Harel rolled with a dramatic wail and stopped with a dramatic wail. She lay spread eagle, eyes to the sky, armour seeping with snow. She made no motion to move from the snowdrift; far too melodramatic to get up.  
  
“Hark, Inquisition and take heed as this **bastard Templar** who plays dirty has killed me. The prick.”  
  
“Ex-Templar” she heard the Commander say as he drew closer.  
  
Cullen waded into view, armour catching the sun and sending it right into her _fucking eyes._ His breath visible and coming out in strong puffs. He extended a hand which Harel took gratefully.  
  
“Unfair.” was all she said to him as he hefted her up.  
  
“Battle is unfair, you need to be ready for anything, Herald.”  
  
She squeezed his plated fingers then looked him in the eye. A yelp, higher and sharper than any man could have produced flew from his mouth as he pulled his gauntlet back with a start.  
  
“I guess fire can get through that lining. Good to know,” Harel said with a wicked grin, “but I’m not going to handshake every Templar basra who wants my head.”  
  
The pair trudged back up the small hill, Herald still talking animatedly.  
  
“Could you imagine that? _Pride Demon!_ _LEMME SHAKE THAT_ _\- what are you doing! Nooooooo !_ _I craved_ _camaraderie_ _!!! aaaaahhhhhh!!!_ and I’m dead.” Arms flailing once again, nearly catching on Cullen’s sword grip.  
  
Cullen gave a tired sighed. Where this woman got her endless energy from will forever remain a mystery.  
  
“Boss!” came Bull from the meagre stables, “You have a visitor!”  
  
Harel turned her eyes from Cullen, both still panting from exertion, to see the Ambassador. She was hilariously swaddled in far too many furs, her Antivan penchant for warmth showing blatantly. She tried to look dignified in her little mobile fortress. She really tried.  
Harel put a little more energy into her step; Bull rolling his one good eye and Cullen quickening his pace towards the soldiers instead.  
  
“Well, well, if it isn’t our diplomat, covered in pelts like an Avaar.” Harel darted out a hand to clasp the smaller one that was barely peeking out from the furs, “Tired of quelling the nobles? Perhaps you wish to channel the gods instead of pleading to the insufferable gentry?”  
  
“Neither, Your Worship,” the Ambassador spoke, trying not to notice how Harel cradled her fingers, “A matter has come to my attention that is in need of your assistance.”  
  
The Herald had warm hands; smaller than expected, but there were callouses and patches of burned skin that told stories where flesh spoke instead of tongue. Strong hands with gentle intent.  
  
Harel clucked her tongue, “Always so formal,” before removing her hand; watching a cold breeze sidle up to Josephine and making her shut her eyes in discomfort.  
  
The Herald looked at the bundle of furs and focused her mana to emanate around her, like a static field but bright, happy, shielding. She pulled the magic like a bubble, weaved it into fire, but soft. She thought of gold and hearths.  
  
The Ambassador immediately noticed the change in temperature and held the furs much looser around her frame.  
  
“How novel!” Josephine said with a fascinated tone, “but thank you. Truly, this cold is unbearable even with the sun out. I should warn you, with that magic you may find me close by quite often for warmth.”  
  
Harel looked towards her mount instead of the Ambassador, a smile on her face with a muttered, “Funny.”  
  
Harel looked back at the Lady, puzzled, “If it’s frosty enough to make you look like a miniature Druffalo, why not send a messenger?”  
  
“There is no need to send a runner when I could easily make my way here; furs or not, the walk is refreshing” there was a sparkle in her grey hazel eyes yet again, precious stones “and I managed to catch the last parts of your training. If I may be so bold, you use a phenomenal and truly unique style of fighting. ”  
  
Harel snorted and shook her head, “Cullen shoved me down a hill, I would hardly call that phenomenal.”  
  
“I abhor bloodshed but the way you weave spells, drifting through the air and spinning down like some thunderbolt from the Maker. It is like art given life.”  
  
“Well, I suppose I owe you my thanks for such kind words” Harel muttered sheepishly

“Perish the thought, I am simply stating facts.” the Ambassador replied, a smile yet to leave her face.  
  
  
_**“**_ _ **You two make me nauseous.”**_ Bull drawled in Qunlat.  
  
Harel snapped her gaze at him, forgetting her sheepishness immediately, _**“**_ _ **And you make me want to**_ _ **electrocute you**_ _ **”  
  
“**_ _ **Hey, I’m all for aggression in the**_ _ **bed**_ _ **.**_ _ **”**_ Bull waggled his eyebrow at her. _**  
  
“**_ _ **You**_ _ **-**_ _ **”  
  
  
**_It was like a cat watching a bird flitting from tree to tree. Josephine turned her head for each comment, obviously enraptured by the exchange but, once Harel took notice, she stopped with an embarrassed lowering of her head. Bull laughed and patted Harel on the back, the man’s big paw nearly sending her crashing _again_.  
  
  
“You need her, Ruffles? Don’t let me keep the two of you back.” he said, one eye on Harel the whole sentence.

“Yes, I’ll leave before Bull makes me **rip** out his good eye. That and I’VE SHAMED CULLEN ENOUGH FOR ONE DAY.”  
  
The Commander was drinking deeply from a waterskin when she shouted, only narrowing his eyes and turning his back on her completely as a response.  
  
Fussing with her braid, the Herald pointed her horns slightly at Haven’s entrance.  
  
“After you, Milady.” she said, trying to smooth the many stray white hairs that had gotten loose.  
  
The pair walked closely, Harel pumping a fist when Varric gave them a wave and mouthed _crazy_. The Qunari Elf rolled her eyes, nearly putting her hand up in a two-fingered salute until she remembered her company. Josephine cast her gaze to the tavern as they passed around the tents, exhaling an amused breath at the sight.

“Something funny?” Harel said quietly, curious at the small noise.  
  
Josephine brought her eyes back to the Herald, white hair still untamed, black eyebrows lifted slightly instead of fully up in wild excitement.  
  
“Your spectacle at the Tavern has lifted many spirits. Seeing you as a person instead of a grim bloodletter has done wonders for the morale of the Inquisition...as surprising as that may sound.”  
  
“Hey, I don’t cause _that_ much bloodshed.”  
  
“Unfortunately, you do. I’ve seen Cullen’s reports.”  
  
“They’re not always so bad.”  
  
“There is a consistent blood spatter on each of his reports, My Lady.”  
  
Ah, yes that. Josephine didn’t receive the bloody parchments; Harel wouldn’t dare. Even when she wrote at the fireside of their makeshift camp in the Hinterlands, she checked the page for any imperfections while Sera made lewd, unhelpful comments.  
  


The Lady deserved her reports on proper vellum, especially considering the care in the diplomat’s own letters to her. Looped, flowing handwriting on a pristine parchment that always smelled lovely, a little reprieve from the dog stink of Ferelden. Her writing reminded her of the sea, tide in and out, a consistent unbroken wave of beautiful scrawl.  
She even saw the tracings of a hand-drawn druffalo Josephine rubbed away but not well enough. She probably thought that it was too unprofessional _as usual_ , but Harel kept the missive tucked somewhere safe. The Lady was a fine artist but clung too tightly to propriety. It was freeing to see her stray from the rigid path of etiquette; a real person buried under the armour of The Game.  
  
Besides, Cullen and Leliana were used to blood. Some dried splats on the page every once in a while won’t kill them.  
  
The Herald bowed her head slightly, pulling her thoughts back forcefully to the present, “I didn’t realize getting completely smashed on a single mug of mead would be inspiring.”  
  
“The citizens of Ferelden are a pack-like people. Their culture is one where they ply camaraderie through drinking.”  
  
At that, Harel gave a soft snort, a Sera laugh as she called it, and looked at the Ambassador sadly.  
  
“They were so happy when I managed to choke that swill down; it was like I was just another human downing just another ale in just another tavern.”  
  
Josephine stopped the Herald with a gentle squeeze of her hand on her arm.  
  
“And they will look past everything soon enough; they must.”, the golden rings in her eyes prominent, small suns, radiant, “You are their Herald, their hope for this world to continue, despite what the Grand Clerics say. Pardon my boldness, but you are more than just the horns on your head or the mark on your hand, My Lady. You are a charming, learned bastion of Faith and no matter what the people may say, know that _I believe in you._ ”  
  
A mouth slightly agape coupled with genuine surprise. When the look didn’t leave, Josephine thought she might have offended the Herald, but then she laughed. Bright green eyes, brighter with joy. Laughter that was normally a high, witch-like cackle was instead a low echo of her voice; like a heartbeat.  
  
The laugh turned into a loud exhale.  
  
“You know just what to say, you damn bureaucrat.”  
  
If her tone wasn’t playful and kind, The Ambassador would have taken it as an insult. Instead, Josephine let go of the arm she was holding on to.  
  
Maker, normally her words weren’t so...so... _informal._ One would think years in the courts and councils would have her skills tempered like steel but the Herald was just, _to_ o easy to speak to. It was bad enough the display she made on their first meeting; howling like some _seagull.  
  
_Harel bent her wrists to illicit a crack, rotating them to text flexibility, “Speaking of the tavern, I heard I found my way into your office.” the playfulness was replaced by a thoroughly shamed look as the Herald turned her head away, “I am **very** sorry for my behaviour. Bull told me everything.”  
  
Josephine gave a blank look, setting a trap for the elf to walk into.  
  
  
_“_ I am unsure if I am so willing to forgive such a display” Harel brought her head up at once, nervous fear clear in her eyes. Josephine felt bad but, a little teasing every now and then won't hurt. The brat of a Herald could use a verbal peer once in a while.  
  
The Ambassador held up a hand; a motion for her to continue her sentence. A little drama for the dramatic elf.

“But I can be convinced. I am very intrigued to know how your Fennec-catching tale ends.” the Antivan halts her speech quickly, then resumes, "I mean, once we've discussed the article in need of your attention."  
  
A hand on her forehead, eyes closed, held breath finally exhaled. Harel thought she fucked up for a second there. _Really fucked up._ Josephine? Mad at her? Think badly of her in any way? She’d rather hop headfirst into Bianca’s arrow spray. Pressing the bottom of her palm into the base of her horn, she began walking again.  
  
“You! You are just!” Harel struggled to find words as she raised her hands in disbelief, then let out an amused sigh, “You got me. Here I thought you would, I dunno, find me an uncouth beast after that incident. You sharp little dagger, you. Tripping me up with your-your- _words_!”  
  
She must admit, a flustered Harel was an interesting sight. Normally the woman was all words and bluster; refined chaos.  
  
Josephine put a hand on the Herald’s shoulder, a grounding sentiment, “I would never. You would make some light-hearted quip and I would be too busy laughing to stay upset.”  
  
“Alas, if only my charms worked on the Seeker” Harel pushed the hair from her eyes, looking over to the shorter woman “The woman’s built like a Nuggalope but has the social skills of a Drasolisk! Bitey!”  
  
Josephine giggled into the back of her hand as they walked to the Chantry, the Spymaster’s frown increasing. Her blue eyes narrowed and followed the two; Harel opened the door for the Antivan who responded with a curtsey. The Spymaster tightened her grip on the parchment she was holding.  
  
“Sister-”  
  
  
“ _What?_ ” Leliana hissed at the scout  
  


“Y-you’ve torn my report in half.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a confession. I don't make drafts, I don't do outlines, i don't do any rough work at all. Words would probably be better if I did but that just ain't how my brain works.  
> Brain don't organize too gud. Fingers go clack clack on keyboard, that how work do. 
> 
> I've always found the fighting style of the Saarebas interesting, using just like, themselves to fight.  
> Hedge mages apparently can't use magic like normal mages so that's fun to know, might as well play around with the idea. 
> 
> Here's the wiki on it:  
> [ **Hedge Magic**](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Hedge_magic)
> 
> Good vibes.
> 
> Hope you liked it. I'm less likely to explode now that I've gotten some of my fandom jitters out. I have ideas floating in my head, need to go fishing. Pluck them out with my bare hands. I've been listening to the Dragon Age OSTs. This is War and I'm not calling you a liar are such bangers. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. I know I did.


	4. To be consumed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haunted.  
> The Herald is haunted.  
> The mages at Redcliffe showed her a future and a substance that chilled her soul, quite literally.  
> She looks away, trying to escape, trying to reason with the hole in the sky.  
> The Ambassador is there, she's always there and now, she knows what she used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Very very very tame-non graphic depiction of non-con in this one.
> 
> So i have some delicious digi art I made of Harel that was supposed to be a tarot card. I ofc chickened out of the details again as usual. Details scare me aight. 
> 
> if yall need me, I'll be in my [Tumblr @w-h4-t](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/w-h-4-t) as usual

The Chant of Light was heard from every corner and washed over the faithful with every step. The good people knew that their Herald would pass by with deaf ears on their canticles; a smile, a greeting laugh, maybe a wave, but to intake the blessed words seemed far past her interest.

She was a different sort.

She tried to hide many times; keep the most private of her actions from prying eyes. Alas, the people of Haven, all too curious, would dare seek the wrath of their Maker and look for her when she thought herself invisible.  
  
So every time she found herself discovered, she would move further and further from the centre of Haven.  
She needed peace and even her walks by the Druffalo on the mountainside did little to calm her. Sweet batting eyelashes of the great beasts, butting her legs, understanding her more than the people ever could.  
  
But tonight she needed silence and a clear view of _that thing.  
_  
Eyes looking to the Breach, green on green, magic meeting its home. Sitting on her heels, lips moving quietly, slowly like a gentle sigh curling puffs of breath over the air.  
  
It would be honestly terrifying to anyone seeing her in this state; the grey-skinned elf devoid of self as the green of her eyes became sharper, brighter.  
  
Like they were glowing.  
  
After meeting the rebel mages and gaining their support; Harel had returned with a far too pretty, sharp-tongued Tevinter mage. She met his cynical sarcasm with wild wit; riposting and twirling words as easily as she would her magic.  
  
She had introduced him to her council, Dorian of House Pavus as he took a grand bow. Cullen didn’t seem too pleased but they now had the support of people who could help close the hole in the sky. Complaints be damned.  
  
And yet, once the council was concluded, the Herald never once looked at the Ambassador. There was a slight tremble to her shoulders, a look of muted fear. Harel had spoken of the horrors she witnessed in Alexius’ future with nervous disbelief, a shaky cackle punctuated her sentences.  
  
She’d seen future Leliana, a fearsome, vicious, _cruel_ woman bent to hatred by the torture of The Elder One. Fury in every snap of her bowstring as if each arrow shouted the moment of Mahariel's death by the God's hand. The present Spymaster looked away when the tale was recounted, easily seeing herself becoming much colder should her beloved fall.   
_  
_ She spoke in detail of her time in the future, the red lyrium, the death, the Venatori, _The Elder One_.  
It was easy to see that she was being haunted. _  
  
_There was a furrow to the Herald’s brow as she toyed with a map marker that stood over Redcliffe before looking up with a strained smile and left, leaving the Antivan more than a little concerned.  
  
Now, the Qunari elf sat on the very bridge she was dragged through on her first day; entry doors closed to give her privacy.  
  
One person, however, refused to do so.  
  
The creaking of heavy wood slid over the snow as Josephine bodily pushed her way through; once again, swaddled to the eyes in furs. Harel was still in position, head unmoving, staring up and whispering; looking akin to the tales of Rivani hedge mages she read about years ago.  
  
Harel was bathed in a green glow from the soon to be tackled Breach. The light cast stark shadows over her form and made her look less like a praying seer or a deranged maleficar; she looked lost, like a child reaching out to the phantom of their parent.  
  
It was easy to forget the girl was only in her 22nd year. She was both older and younger; constantly pulling the strings of her age, shifting between herself. At times, she would laugh like an urchin stealing sweets. Other times she would look, solemn, distant yet, at peace like a Grey Warden standing at the mouth of the Deep Roads coming to terms with The Calling.  
  
But now, she just looked desperate.  
  
Drawing closer to stand at her side, Josephine heard the bare whispers skate from Harel’s lips, in a slow, soulful tone; singing but full of regret.  
_  
__Melava inan enansal  
ir su aravel tu elvaral  
u na emma abelas  
in elgar sa vir mana  
in tu setheneran din emma na_

 _lath sulevin  
lath araval ena  
arla ven tu vir mahvir  
melana ‘nehn  
enasal ir sa lethalin  
  
_“What does it mean?” Josephine said, elevating her tone just enough so as not to spook the Herald.  
  
She may as well have announced herself with the beating of a shield. Harel’s whole body jumped slightly, a spark of lightning arcing off her horns.  
  
“Josephine! Mythal, you....you scared me.” Harel stuttered, eyelashes fluttering, hands braced on the freezing stone, then remembering her manners, “apologies, I mean, Lady Montilyet...”  
  
A light intake of charmed breath, “There is no need to be so distraught. You are welcome to use my first name.” she tilted her head to look upon the mage, not down on, “I do believe you granted me the same permission when we first met.”  
  
_“_ _I am partial to Harel. Simple. Easy.”  
  
_“Harel...” The Antivan said, testing the name in her mouth like wine.  
_  
_ The Herald looked distant when she heard her name spoken, no, purred in that accent. In the light of the Breach, the Lady couldn’t see the blush that flooded her face. _  
  
_Green and grey met in a sudden unbroken stare; deadlocked as one tried secretly to decipher the other.  
No avail.  
Josephine looked to the Herald’s shoulders, nothing but her enchanter’s mail to shield her from the winter. Reckless little mage with no field of mana around her this time. She pulled off one of her furs and wrapped the Herald tightly who just stared the whole time; an eyebrow up.  
  
“I am not cold” Harel said, betraying her words as she burrowed into the still-warm cloak.  
  
Noticing the display, Josephine exhaled a laugh, “I would beg to differ. Besides, I will not perish from simple cold. You, however, are under-dressed.”  
  
The Ambassador motioned to sit next to the Qunari elf but was halted by a surprised choking sound.  
  
“Milad-” Harel took a breath, “Josephine. The ground has been trodden on by every living thing. Are you certain?”  
  
Deftly yet messily, the Antivan dropped herself to the ground, long furs bundling over her form.  
  
“I’m here now, am I not?”  
  
Harel drew a hand to her mouth, feigning shock, “The eldest Montilyet? On the dirty ground with a heretical Ox Rabbit apostate? What _will_ they say?!”  
  
“Hush,” Josephine said with a gentle swat to the mage’s arm, “I will render them silent with a proper glove left on the table; let them talk.”  
  
They fell into silence again, odd how the Herald who quipped so easily let her happiness melt away as fast as words flew from her tongue. It was a tired air she held currently, one that couldn’t be dispelled by simply laughing at the unseen tension.  
  
“Suledin. It means endure.” came Harel so softly, the Ambassador almost missed the words completely, “it’s an old song someone used to sing in my Clan, the translation is very muddled but it’s about loss and struggle and overcoming,” she looked at the Antivan, eyes blazing with honesty, “it gives me peace to sing it.”  
  
Josephine swore she had opened her mouth to reply but her words were lost under the weight of Harel’s. The Herald never spoke details of her upbringing, even when gently probed for legitimate clerical reasons.  
  
_“You know of my time with the Valo-Kas. You know about our last mission with Iron ass_ _Tully_ _.” she had chortled but there was nothing behind her eyes, “I think that’s a good enough background, yes? No need to tell the world eeeeeverything about me. Next, they’ll ask what I had for lunch_ _or what colour my_ _smallclothes_ _are_ _!”  
  
_It was a humorous deflection, devoid of the intense tomfoolery she normally wore. Josephine was afraid to speak, fearing that her words were not enough -damn it all, words were supposed to be her forte! _-_ , that anything she said would cause the elf to slam her doors shut again; jumping away like a Halla into the night. Harel turned her eyes back to the Breach, the grieving child expression returning.  
  
“I was born to Clan Lavellan purely by accident. A Tal-Vashoth mercenary protecting the humans who came to trade...had his way...” she stumbled over her words and spoke to the air instead of the woman next to her, eyes retaining their previous odd glow, “The Clan said it was horrible, hateful trimesters followed by a painful and laborious birth. When they wrenched me from my mother’s dying body, they said she cursed me with her last breath.”  
  
Her head turned slowly towards the Ambassador, two hearts beating quickly.  
  
_“Dread Wolf take this child. Fen’Harel.”_ Harel recalled slowly, words spoken as if they were always on her mind.  
  
“And so I grew up in the Clan by the grace of Keeper Deshanna. She certainly didn’t approve of me. It was her duty as Keeper to protect her clan from the Dread Wolf; my namesake who the clan believed I represented. Even so, I still had the blood of the people, no matter the grey skin or black horns. She chose to keep me even though I would not have been missed if they tossed me into the bushes. My place in the Clan didn’t mean they accepted me.”  
  
Harel massaged her forehead, white hairs spilling forward.  
  
“I had killed Avrielle. Gentle Avrielle, motherly Avrielle, a devout follower of Ghilan’nain who tended the Halla, who sang children to sleep and patched wounds well into the night. I robbed the clan of a prominent member, only to replace her with me,” the elf looked at Josephine with guilty eyes, “a half-breed intruder born from violence, a usurper of their blood.”  
  
Harel tried to hide the shine of tears in her eyes, “How much does a supposedly gentle, sweet woman have to hate someone to curse them with the very last breath they take.”  
  
The Ambassador regarded Harel with a dismayed look, only to be replaced by rage. Rage so often kept under check, the rage that never spawned even when dignitaries were being _aggravating_ , rage that sat under her skin, coursing through her Antivan blood. She was not quick to anger but _this_? This was infuriating.  
  
Harel was not normal, but she was certainly not wicked. She did everything with a silly smile, tried to make herself approachable; a sheer antithesis to the tales of rampaging horned beasts or barbaric elves.  
She flitted around, singing and dancing, drinking lightly with the soldiers, kneeling to children’s heights to speak quiet stories, even inconspicuously lighting the chantry candles for morning mass with her flames. She was more like the recollection of Avrielle than she braved to speak and yet they _dare_ say she robbed them of her. She tried so hard to be a part of a world that was quick to denounce her. And she still tries despite the _ignorant hate_.  
  
  


“They would turn you away simply for being born?!” Josephine’s breath came out in angry puffs, “I respect the Dalish for their culture but to cast aside a child for some _miope_ grudge that you had _no_ _hand in_ other than BEING BORN?! You have killed _no one_! If _anyone_ is to be blamed, it is your _ripugnante_ sire for such _disgusting_ behaviour! I can’t believe! I actually can’t believe the-the! Agh!”  
  
Teeth gritted, breathing deeply, trying to regain control.  
  
“Listen to me carefully when I say this,” the Diplomat said, brown hand reaching to pluck the grey one upwards to be held between them, “It is _not_ your fault.”  
  
With every word, the gentle yet firm shake of their clasped hands emphasized the meaning of her rant.  
  
Dumbfounded was the correct word. Harel was dumbfounded. Forget the slipping of a mask; the mask was _fucking shattered._ The Ambassador seethed. Eyebrows creased more than she’s ever seen, eyes wild, wide, angry, lips parted ever so slightly to show clenched teeth.  
  
And it flattered her that someone could be so _pissed_ on her behalf considering the people she dealt with in her life.  
  
Harel smiled, gently and the Ambassador let her anger go for a moment.  
  
Then little drops fell from her green eyes; they wouldn’t stop. No heavy sobbing or heaving dramatically as one would expect from someone like her. Just water, spilling, reddening the whites of her tired eyes.

A laugh. One short, _heh_.  
  
But Josephine knew the Herald was on her last legs of putting up a face full of joy. The laugh, the smile, only there to try and stem the tears, try and prevent her from breaking down entirely.  
  
She’d done the same long ago when she was still learning The Game and its denizens; being mocked to her face with nary a defence. Sharp words hurting, but never let them see you cry or it would be _so_ much worse.  
  
The Antivan grabbed the elf into an embrace, furs squashed firmly between them. She rested her head where the Herald’s neck met her shoulder and squeezed, grounding her. Harel reciprocated, though gentler, as if she feared she’d crush the bones of the only person capable of digging their way so deeply into her soul.  
  
Josephine rocked her gently, steeling herself lest she starts crying in tandem. Antivans and their damnable passionate blood, emotive enough to send her bawling with the Herald. But she won’t. She was needed as a ship needs an anchor to brace the waves lest they drift off forever into the ocean.  
  
Harel often looked like she’d float away, light and airy in spirit and mind, ribbing as if to remind herself she exists, that she walks in a physical body and not like a Spirit in the Fade.  
  
With the way she looked at the Breach, frightened and longing, one may have mistaken her for a Spirit entirely.  
  
“I was searching for my _Karataam_ , my team. They were in this _wretched_ future somewhere; Dorian searched with me.” Harel mumbled into the golden silk, now stained with tears, “What I saw in the prison cells...What I heard...”  
  


* * *

  
_“Come on now! We haven’t got time to go in every one of these damn jails!” Dorian said with a huff  
  
Harel peeked her head to look through the bars of each cell, palms crackling, one with lightning, the other with the mark.  
  
“Listen here, you gorgeous bastard!” The Herald shouted, “If I miss some amazing loot just lying around because you’re butthurt about being here, then I’ll be taking it straight from your coin pouch!”  
  
The gall of the woman. The absolute gall. Stuck in a chaotic _ _Void_ _scape future and she wants to look around for loot. Fucking loot.  
  
“Oooo, issat a staff? A shame I don’t use them. Interested, _ _Tevinter_ _?” Harel chattered over her shoulder as she opened the cell door, “They sell pret-”  
  
Ice.  
  
Within the second, nothing but ice around Harel’s feet. Dorian raced forward-thinking she had been caught in a trap but stopped short when he felt himself suffocating from the pure essence of mana around them.  
  
The Herald was holding her breath, frost dusting her legs.  
  
A huge clump of red lyrium glowed in the darkness, lighting the room only enough for her to see what jutted from its mass.  
  
An arm. _ _The arm that batted her gently when she was being a wretch; that hid a little laugh as though the very sight was scandalous._ _A_ _familiar_ _arm that still wore the clinging golden ruffles, ripped_ _and sullied_ _._ _  
_ _  
Fingers stretched out as if grasping for an escape; a silent scream personified.  
  
The frost crept higher. Control Harel, Control. Before you freeze your innards solid. Control!  
  
Harel reached her hand to touch the limb _ _as Dorian fought his way through the potent mana cloud.  
  
She couldn’t tell if it was rigour or her own ice magic. She couldn’t find life in those fingers that wrote her letters in a practised cursive.  
  
Dorian lit his staff as he grabbed Harel’s shoulder, shaking her and sending ice chunks spilling from her _ _body_ _.  
  
Her nails had gone dull and purple, skin once a lovely, healthy umber, now ashen.  
  
She was dead.  
  
And the_ _n_ _stones sang to her a sweet mourning song, almost as if she could feel a being reach out and pull her soul into the lyrium. It was humming, humming the songs of her people but twisted and cold, digging into her, asking her why, why, why be here when you can_ _escape pain and destroy all who’ve hurt you_ _._ _T_ _he crafter’s son, holding up a carved halla, taunting, I’ll break it and then I’ll break you._ _Oxen, knife-ear, halla.  
Half-breed._ _  
  
_ _She tried to breathe, to lift herself from the lyrium’s grasp but it_ _choked her_ _, asking her questions. Singing. SINGING.SINGING.  
_ _  
_ _Sobbing. Accented sobbing, a gasp_ _for_ _breath before death came fitfully over her grey eyes._ _  
  
She tasted blood in her mouth as she broke her hold on Josephine’s hand.  
  
_ _Dorian had slapped her. Very hard.  
  
Hard enough to shock the ice from her blood, to send the beating of her heart into fire in her veins. _ _She sucked in a huge breath, coughing when she breathed too hard._ _  
  
Control. _ _  
  
“Very sorry I had to do that but you know, we’re somewhat pressed for time _ _and you were turning into a_ _n_ _icicle faster than I could help,_ _” he said with his usual charm, “I will say though.”  
  
He looked at the arm Harel held onto, then placed a hand on her shoulder.  
_  
  


“ _When_ _we get out of here, I promise you, none of this_ _will_ _happen.”  
  
Harel nodded as Dorian turned away, looking to see if any Venatori snuck in during the Herald’s __meltdown._ _  
  
It was now her turn to leave. Leave and right the present. Leave and she’d be alright.  
  
__T_ _he red lyrium disturbed her soul.  
No one should have it.  
Not when it sang in a way that hurt to the very core.  
__Power but at what cost?_ _  
_

* * *

Harel mumbled into the perfumed shoulder only to be shushed sweetly by the Antivan rocking her gently. The Herald clung desperately, afraid she'd fly off into the snow or just disappear entirely. Afraid. She pushed their bodies apart and clasped her hands around the elf's face, puffy eyes, reddish nose, halting muffled sobs.  
  
“As you can see, I am alive and well...as is Leliana and everyone else. The Redcliffe you saw was only what you saw; pretend it is an illusion, Harel,” she brushed away a wisp of white hair that had fallen past her eyes, “Everyone is still alive.”  
  
Harel sniffed, eyes searching, then looking past the Ambassador into the Breach. Josephine noticed the change in gaze and began drying the tears with her thumbs.  
  
“It will be fine. Do not let your malaise consume you. We need you to be strong for tomorrow’s assault.” she spoke in a voice quiet enough to meld with the sound of snow falling.  
  
Harel reached up to grab the hands on her face, lingering a touch for only a second before pulling them away entirely; grey palms clapped on the Antivan’s shoulders.  
  
“I will be fine.” the Herald spoke through the roughness of her throat.  
  
“You will be fine.” Josephine replied, nodding.  
  
Harel was the first to spring up, clutching the cloak to her body as she extended a hand out to the diplomat. The woman took it softly into her own, squeezing the palm as the Herald brought her up. They stood side by side, cloaks touching shoulder to shoulder with only the green light of the Breach to guide their way back to Haven.  
  
A new voice replacing the vitriol of her mother, easing the hurt, but not erasing it yet.  
  
_You will be fine._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had this whole idea of Harel's hands coming up around her head which branches into a wolf's skull (you know like a metaphor; _this will always be apart of me_ type of one). I forgot to give Harel an ass so excuse me. I mean I guess the excuse can be that Elves are assless and Harel just happened to inherit the pancake booty from her mama's side. 
> 
> Damn son.  
> I liked the mage route though the templar route has a very fun story too. Mage route has that delicious soundtrack tho, you know what I mean. 
> 
> The song is from the World of Thedas Vol. 1, Suledin. Very interesting. 
> 
> translations:  
> Karataam-an infantry platoon  
> Ripugnante- loathsome  
> Miope-short-sighted
> 
> Thanks for reading my cringy ass shit.


	5. The Light shall lead her to safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is closed and yet the Herald is anxious.  
> Then comes the Archdemon, the Elder One, the death, the pain.  
> They return to the bridge one last time.  
> Let her be safe.
> 
> And she rises, falls and returns.

A nervous Harel was a giddy Harel. A happy Harel was a funny Harel. But a relieved Harel? Relieved _and_ happy? The Seeker saw this first hand, the moment the Herald pulled the Breach closed, she shook her head of the ash and _leapt_ on Cassandra. A powerful hug weaved together by the sharp pinpricks of laughter.  
  
Cassandra hugged back -rather awkwardly- despite her stoic nature. The Breach was closed and that plucky little thing did it despite everything that was against her. She would not bite the Herald’s head off for simply showing happiness.  
  
Coming back to Haven was a sight to behold. Harel flung the doors open, bright, wild smile.  
  
“The Breach is **FUCKING** CLOOOOOOOOOSED!!!!” she screamed into the air, “YESYESYES!!! HAHAAAAAAAA!!!” A fist raised, punctuating the joy.  
  
If the Chantry Sisters were displeased with her foul mouth, they didn’t show it. It was a joyous day and they would not let the uncouth elf tarnish it; even if it meant ignoring her words entirely. She did it; the Maker’s chosen did it, even if she bellowed like a dockland whore.  
  
The Herald bolted up the stairs to where her advisors waited to greet her, a hushed exchange between the Spymaster and Ambassador followed by the bumping of shoulders. An exchange between friends. Cullen just smiled, clearing his throat to pretend he couldn't hear the pair.  
  
A mellow look came upon the Herald, an extreme disconnection from the blathering, frenzied fool a moment ago. The Ambassador met her gaze, nodding acknowledgement at the Herald. She shortened the distance between her and the council, a barely contained smile plastered on her face.  
  
“I am fine.” The Herald finally spoke, loud enough to crest over the cheers.  
  
“You are fine.” the Antivan replied, the mask in place but not as solidly.  
  
Sera made joking retching noises.  
  
Harel made a face, thin-lipped with eyes closed; Sera being Sera, always ruining a moment.  
  
The Herald made a motion and clapped her hand to Cullen’s, shaking vigorously, no fire this time “Well done.” he congratulated as he gently pushed her down the line.  
She moved to the Spymaster who observed her apathetically. Didn’t matter, the Qunari elf still brought the prickly Mistress into a tight hug, the woman’s arms folded behind her back, making no attempt to reciprocate the embrace. The Herald tilted her head to rest on the Orlesian’s shoulder, facing Josephine.  
  
_“Grumpy”_ the elf sounded out loud enough for both to hear.  
  
“Are you looking to get stabbed, _Herald_?” the Spymistress teased but there was the clear undertone of a threat.  
  
She let go immediately, as if she’d been burned, “And here I thought you were the Left Hand, not the Seeker.” she said again, seeing a small smile on the bard’s face.  
  
_Smile more, Nightingale. It suits you too.  
  
_And finally, the odd Qunari looked upon the Ambassador, the very woman who scraped her off of Haven’s bridge to face the Breach, who heard a tale that no other knows and showed fury on her behalf. She felt her heart in her throat, almost afraid that fire would come dripping out her skin.  
  
And if not fire, she may just _throw up_ instead.  
  
And then she leapt, pulling the woman close, crushing her into a hug and lifting her body off the ground, swinging her like a doll.  
  
Wide-eyed, compressed against the Herald’s chest with no use of her arms, she made this squeak, loud and very _very surprised._ Only after a few revolutions did the Spymistress clear her throat very loudly, forcing the Qunari elf to stop her horseplay and set the Lady down smoothly.  
  
The Herald kept a hand on the Ambassador to steady her. The Antivan’s normally perfectly set hair was mussed -a braid coming lose in the chaos- and she looked a little unsteady, but her eyes were vivid with exhilaration. The clear roughness of the elf’s tousling only fueling the fire.  
  
Bull started joke retching with Sera now.  
_  
Vashedan_ , she was this close to throwing a flash of chain lightning in their direction.  
  
  
Rubbing her hands together quickly, the Herald beamed, “Party?”  
  
“I suppose-” the Antivan started but was immediately cut off by a certain dwarf.  
  
“Did someone say party?” Varric chimed in, swaggering towards the Herald. “Because after all this bullshit, I could _use_ a party.”  
  
“You heard the dwarf, **LET’S GET JOLLY RIGHT NUG-FUCKING NOW!!!** ”  
  
Harel broke a record, all three advisors plus the Seeker carried a defeated look at her impolite hollering.  
“Ugh,” was all Cassandra could get out before the word was swallowed up by a booming cry of joy that swept through Haven.  
  
A devout, aged Sister peered at her from inside the Chantry. The mouth on that girl; she’d need a nation’s worth of soap to scrub the filth from her tongue. And yet she kept wagging it. She sighed. Ah, the air-headed passion of _youth_.  
  
She retreated into the Chantry, lighting candles as the people celebrated. For her, it was a time for prayer, a hope and wish that the Maker guides their path smoothly; that he protect his creations and the apostate that led them. And, Andraste forbid, should she fall, let it be a speech of mourning so that the Herald goes to the Maker’s side in peace.  
  
_The Light shall lead her safely  
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.  
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.  
As the moth sees light and goes toward the flame,  
She should see fire and go towards Light.  
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,  
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker  
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.  
__  
_ She finished her sermon, eyes cracking open narrowly when she heard the crass laughter of The Maker’s Chosen. She couldn’t help but smile, even through the minor disdain. The woman was indeed joyous, just as Andraste was.  
  
Maker, help them, their saviour was such a delightful idiot.  
  


* * *

  
She looked just a touch nauseous. Her eyes looking to the sky, searching for the hole but she knew all she’d see was the thin green scar painted on the clouds. She should be happy, the Breach was closed but there was a disquiet, a knotting in her stomach that made her want to pull the muscle off her bones and _scratch_. She couldn’t keep her eyes from looking where the Breach used to be; a valley of the Fade, now sewn shut. It....it _troubled_ her.  
  
Cassandra had come out to congratulate her, normally the Seeker was...irritable but today she seemed lighter. A peace settling in her chest as if coming to terms- no- accepting the Herald.  
Accepting her ways.  
  
_“I am pleased we can be comrades.” the elf had told the Seeker, a hand on a broad shoulder,_ _chuckling_ _”_ _Butting heads with you, albeit fun, was not productive. I may have the horns, but I am no ram.”_ _  
  
“_ _You take me for a ram?_ _”_ _came the Seeker;_ _mock_ _anger that had to be brought forcefully_ _through her_ _monotone_ _voice so as not to_ _offend the Herald._ _  
  
Another laugh, “She'va dhal! __The Seeker is jesting! Are we certain the world isn’t still ending?”  
  
A roll of the eyes, a disgusted noise, “Ugh” and Cassandra left, leaving no animosity behind for once. __  
  
_And then a signal horn; chaotic and clamorous, nearly making the elf send a jolt of lightning off her horns.  
  
She curled a fist, terrified, then slowly, dissolving to anger.  
  
“Its always fucking _SOMETHING_!” she muttered bitterly as she trudged quickly to the gate.  
  
Varric followed close behind as he noticed the elf’s war stamp; careful to leave some room knowing the Herald was known for flares of magic when stressed.  
  
“None?” she caught the end of the Ambassador’s conversation with the Commander, a bewildered question.  
  
“What’s happening, Cullen.” the Qunari elf spoke roughly, eyes never looking away from the gate.  
  
“A massive force is marching their way here under no banner.” he bristled, hand squeezing his sword’s grip.  
  
Nausea again. They were far from safe. Haven was no garrison.  
  
They would be slaughtered.  
  
Sharp green eyes looked to the Antivan woman, breath stopped in her chest.  
  
_She_ would be slaughtered. _Again_.  
  
The Herald summoned her magic, fire burning hot and wild in her palm, eyes determined.  
Rage.  
Haven was a village of innocents, children, mothers, spouses, _famil_ _ies_. Whoever was coming most likely had no problem with snuffing out the weak, the helpless. They would kill, simply due to the Inquisition’s banner, all who flocked here to safety; now in peril.  
  
She saw them, a flash in the corner of her eye. A father, holding his wife and son close, huddling them together; shielding them with his body, dagger drawn.  
  
She would stamp out the force or die trying.  
  
The flames grew hotter, she felt her skin heat, she felt her stomach broil.  
  
_CONTROL  
  
_She stepped towards the gate with Cullen who stood a small distance away, seeing how her emotions were affecting her magic. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that he may have to cut down the Herald if she blazed out of control. He was once a Templar; he knew the dangers of berserk hedge mages. He prayed silently it wouldn’t have to come to that.  
  
She placed a hand on the door, ready to beat back the army, wood charring quickly under the heat of her palm. She was sweating, throat parching. She couldn’t. She couldn’t control.  
  
She will combust.  
  
“ **Calm**! Please! I can help! I just want to help but I can’t help if you don’t open!”  
  
The voice, stuttering, confused yet...something. It reached out to her, like a tether, dousing the flames, like two fishes-  
  
“Circling a pond, yes, I know, I can feel it scraping! Open, please!”  
  
Quickly, the Herald shoved the door open to see a young boy surrounded by bodies, one falling as he withdrew a bloody dagger from its back. A large hat covered his eyes, lips trembling.  
  
“I just want to help,” he said, watery stare, red-rimmed, covered by straw-coloured hair, looking into green, not looking, pulling.  
  
Connecting.  
  
The boy raced towards Harel; Cullen drew his sword but the boy paid no attention.  
  
“I’m Cole,” he stuttered, “You took his mages” he pointed to a summit, “and now he’s very angry.”  
  
The horned elf looked to the mountain top and saw a hulking figure silhouetted by smoke and the evening sky. There was also a man dressed in armour, glowing with the sickly crystals she found in Redcliffe, peering back at her; she could feel him smiling.  
She felt nauseous again but fought the feeling down.  
  
“ _You will be fine”_ she could hear echoing in her skull.  
  
“You will be fine.” said the boy, catching Harel’s eyes in an unblinking stare, “but we need to go now!”  
  
She nodded, stomach feeling less tense, lightning crackling down her arms, replacing the roar of flames.  
  


* * *

  
She thought of warm furs, wrapping around her body. The chill bit into her bones, robbed the breath from her lungs. She was too tired to cast a mana field, too hurt. She couldn’t summon the flames, she was all burned out. Harel trudged through the snow, one hand shielding her eyes from the storm.  
  
Was this how she was going to die? Frozen solid under the ice, horns jutting from the frost like a grave marker? She sighed, warmth escaping her body slowly.  
  
It was a fucking nightmare. A fucking Archdemon, swooping down from the sky, red lightning reducing people to a pulpy shower of blood and viscera. She tried to save as many as she could, but she couldn’t save all, just a handful. Some caught under the rafters, trapped in houses, fallen near _exploding fucking pots_. The wind blew at her harder; whatever _fucking God_ , be it the Maker or Elgar’nan or _whoever the fuck_ , was laughing at her, trying to see if he could push her over, make her suffer more for being born.  
  
Harel drew her arms tighter around her.  
  
_Fucking. Fucking. Fucking. Bullshit. I’m going to fucking die.  
_

* * *

  
_The trebuchet launched, the giant red Templar, crushed. She saw Harrit struggle in the distance and commanded Bull go help him. Solas was busy healing Varric’s arm, a sword caught him near his shoulder, deep but not enough to sever._ _She gave the order to help anyone they found once he was healed._ _A screech, drawing closer. It chilled her soul, like the red lyrium but more physical, more here.  
  
“I’m __checking the other direction”_ _she shouted to the elf and the dwarf, “keep your fucking guards up.”  
  
The pair nodded, Solas brushing off the language and Varric grunting as his flesh mended. __  
  
She sprinted, using the mana to carry her, Fade Stepping swiftly, eyes searching everywhere.  
  
Hands crackling in case something awaited her. __Monsters, survivors, a monster survivor_ _?_ _  
Maker’s hairy nutsack, please let no one be there._ _  
  
__But_ _something did indeed await her.  
  
On the bridge to Haven __was a person, shivering, folded in on_ _themselves_ _, shoulders hunched like a turtle under its shell. H_ _ere,_ _where_ _her eyes once stared up at a glowing green hole,_ _where she blathered about her past,_ _where she_ _was given courage and comfort by someone who had no reason_ _or_ _duty_ _to do so._ _  
  
Josephine, __her_ _back to the Herald, shaking. Fear washing in and out.  
  
“Josephine! __What the_ _ **fuck**_ _are you doing here!?_ _” Harel called_ _in surprised anger_ _from the archway, speeding up and dropping down to check the Ambassador for wounds._ _Eyes worried she’d find some_ _thing_ _horrific._ _That or realize she died sitting up._ _  
  
__She was alive but_ _The Herald saw blood spattered on the blue and gold_ _that_ _sent_ _her veins cold_ _._ _She_ _was covered in gore; in her hair, her face, her hands._ _She was drenched._ _She didn’t look hurt but she appeared deeply_ _disturbed._ _Her hair was well out of its neat bun, frazzled and falling over her eyes; she looked like a rabbit, caught in the jaws of a bear before the bite._ _  
  
She didn’t speak. __It was a_ _s if she lay dormant inside, a_ _pale mask_ _of fear as her only expression.  
  
“I-i...” she heard the beginning of a sound, choked by fear, __the Herald brought herself closer to listen; the screams were drowning her out_ _, “I was at the gate_ _when_ _the demons_ _came_ _. I... I saw a man fall, I reached for_ _him_ _. I helped_ _him_ _walk but then...”  
  
She paused to take a deep breath.  
  
“_ _T_ _he man...he...exploded and I...ran.._ _I don’t know where. I just....ran..._ _”  
  
That would explain the mess.  
  
“Josephine. Josephine!” the Herald said, snapping her fingers in front of the woman’s eyes, __they were unsteady, retreating. M_ _ythal, it_ _looked like_ _Asala-taar or_ _at least, something similar._ _  
  
Harel held the Antivan’s face in her hands, wiping away the blood with her thumbs._

_  
“Look at me, focus on me,” Harel said gently with each brush of her thumbs, “You will be fine.”  
  
_ _There was a pause, the grey hazel eyes clouded, gold rings in hiding; dulled. Then a spark, like kindling lighting up again, smoke, then fire. She was regaining herself._ _The words seemed to get through as the_ _diplomat_ _regained clarity; the colour returning to her skin.  
  
“I will be fine,” she said placing a bloodstained hand on the Herald’s.  
  
A roar. Sharp and wailing.  
_ _Then, t_ _he sound of the Fade, sharp like ice, coming closer.  
  
Solas, Fade Stepping quickly, ignoring the emotive nature of what he saw.  
  
“Lethallan, we must push forward to the Chantry.” he said sharply, eyes looking to the Ambassador, “Are you injured, My Lady?”  
  
“No, I am well,” she said _ _forcefully_ _, finding her voice, legs trembling as she stood up_ _but paying no mind_ _.  
  
Harel couldn’t help but sm_ _irk_ _. The bravado of this woman._ _Covered in guts, scared out of her wits yet_ _she speaks as if nothing_ _wa_ _s wrong;_ _the opposite of how she knew nobles to behave._ _  
  
“Come, the others are _ _fighting and helping_ _s_ _urvivors_ _._ _We will be at the gate,_ _” said Solas as he turned, departing_ _as_ _quickly_ _as he came_ _.  
  
“_ _C_ _an_ _you_ _walk?” Harel said with a hand bracing the woman’s shoulder.  
  
“Yes,” she replied, determined despite the obvious fear.  
  
_ _Plan ahead. Prepare.  
  
_ _The Herald focused her mana, coil-like tendrils, not_ _fire, not lightning,_ _but rope; weave, knot, anchor. A green cord of magic spun its way from Harel’s body and wrapped itself around the Ambassador’s midsection, fastening like a cinch.  
  
“If you get hurt, I will know. _ _I_ _t’ll elongate so you can still run at your pace but not enough for you to get lost again. It will heal you of any wounds.” The elf said, giving the cord a tug, eyes burning with light, “Do not look up or around, just keep running.”  
  
_ _The magic washed over her, embracing, hushing._ _The Ambassador nodded, hands shaking, but understanding clearly._ _The magic and its caster gave her strength, new energy flooding through her, b_ _olstering_ _her legs to help the trembling.  
  
_ _Run.  
  
Another loud screech, another set of screams but less this time. Harel started running, _ _the_ _light tapping of shoes behind her ear. She couldn’t. Think. Just act. Think later.  
  
Please, please, please. She didn’t know what she was pleading for, only that she was.  
  
_

* * *

_  
  
__Embers? Recent?_ _A campfire, Mythal, a campfire!_  
  
Harel gathered the ashes in her hands, the warmth coating her fingers as she hiked her boots up the mountain. The soot smeared over her hands as she held them close; she was _fucking freezing._  
  
_“I am not cold”  
  
“I would beg to differ.”  
  
_She kept the memory alive in her mind, lighting the hearth in her soul. The kindness, flooding her as she battled against the snowstorm. The Lady is safe, she must be, she threw her into the Chantry herself. She must be. She couldn’t breathe when her mind brought up flashes; the hand jutting from the red lyrium, now a hand jutting from the Chantry ruins. No.  
  
No. She had to be fine.  
  
If she had more strength she would cast a very careful dispel on her mind, ease her headache but her hands shook when she tried to summon the magic; like vomiting when there’s nothing in your stomach. Nothing.  
  
Harel’s knees buckled, groaning as her face met the snow. Her ribs, her everything hurt. That magister _fuck_ , that avalanche, _everything_ , beat the ever-loving shit out of her. Flesh sore, spongy, cut, burned. She breathed in deeply as she picked herself up; wincing. Yep, there’s a broken rib alright. Maybe two.  
  
_“You will be fine”  
  
_She willed a roar of flame that sizzled on her skin, the weather too icy to illicit heat. She was as powerless as the average person now, no magic whatsoever.  
  
And yet, though she could summon no flame, she saw an orange glow.  
It reflected off the rock of the mountainside, she was certain.  
It was a fire.  
No.  
It was a camp.  
  
Pulling herself forward, soot-covered hands bracing the wall’s face, she dragged herself; mouth open filling with snow but wide enough to screech.  
  
_**“HAVEN!”**  
  
_Let it be Haven.  
Let them hear me.  
  
_Let her be there.  
  
__Safe._  
  
Clinking, heavy shuffling of armour. The voices. Cassandra, Cullen _Stanton_.  
She would cry if she wasn’t so fucking cold and tired and _fucking aching_.  
  
“You fucking...pricks.” she coughed out, exhausted smile.  
  
Then the world fell away, and so did she. Black turning green, The Fade, _The Beyond_.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Taas_ _h_ _aaaaath!!!”_

_She came in like the tide,_ _gleaming_ _and smiling,_ _sweating. The little one, she is proud. She runs, leaping and is caught. I breathe her hair, horns curling up but still growing.  
A kiss to the brow.  
_ _Kost, Kadan, Kost.  
I cannot hear you when your heart beats faster than your words.  
Breathe with me.  
_Good, good, now what did you do with Adaar?  
  
_“Herah taught me to roll and JUMP!” she pushes herself forward,_ _arms out, “and I did it! I’m a rogue_ _now_ _!”  
  
She makes me laugh, she is happy, always happy. Always willing to learn. You are a mage, Tama but I am pleased you are learning of battle. She spins, little pigtail floating from the movement. _

_Harel wakes her mind, tells herself she is here and she listens, dispelling the memory and shaping her dreams. She is on the frozen waterfall_ _that points to_ _Haven, looking at the village, gazing at the Chantry. It is peaceful, no people, no wind, no sounds.  
  
She sits.  
  
“You dream with clarity, my friend.” she hears behind her.  
  
It’s Solas. Of course it is, who else would _ _be skilled enough to_ _traipse upon her dreams. Being a Somniari, he wanders with purpose, sometimes knocking on the door of her own mind when she lays resting.  
  
“I was taught to focus my thoughts, being a mage and all.” she says, feet bouncing rhythmically off the ice, “_ _My bones ache so my sight isn’t_ _as_ _clear as usual.”  
  
He breathes a sound, acknowledgement.  
  
"Is this your work?" he seems confused, but then again, Solas always has a ruminating look.   
  
She can feel the questions swirling in the Fade; a place that holds her shadow tightly, like a second skin, yet she has no holding of the mana encrusted land.  
  
The Herald shakes her head, silently proud that he would think a place of this calibre was laid by her hand, "Not in the slightest. I can only change what I see. I own nothing here but my thoughts."  
  
"I see." is the Elven apostate's only reply, inquiries disappearing, but only for now.   
  
He resumes.   
  
“Do you often summon that pocket of memory? I can feel the echoes of your footprints laid here many times over,” he gestures to nothing but she understands; in the Fade, a feeling is made real, “I can feel his presence too. Though he is not sleeping now, the Fade clings to the memory of his being.”  
  
He looks at her, then to the quiet bath of sunlight on Haven, “He has made this quadrant of the Fade his own, _ _as much as one is able to lay claim on the Fade, of course.” he gestures to the world around him,_ _“_ _A_ _meeting place for two,_ _to be shaped by two_ _. I am impressed by his_ _ability_ _.”  
  
Harel smiles and places her hands to balance on her knees, “Taashath is a talented and thoughtful mage; you two would get along very well.”  
  
They are in a tavern, a white-haired girl, no older than 14, brings two mug_ _s_ _to a table, a swarm of Qunari, one reaches out to pull her ponytail. Another, brown eyed, black-haired, hornless, gives t_ _he offender_ _a_ _disapproving_ _look. A_ _mahogany_ _haired one with_ _curved horns slaps the offender. A gentle fight, only settled by the leader,_ _brusque_ _,_ _commanding_ _,_ _horns sheared off_ _.  
  
Parshaara! You’ll scare the basra. Then we’ll be out of a _ _fucking_ _job!  
  
The little one laughs, sitting in between the hornless and red-haired Qunari, dwarfed by their size.  
  
“That one is Taashath. My mentor. _ _Tal-Vashoth._ _” Harel points to the hornless,_ _doe-eyed Qunari_ _, “_ _He saved me, taught me,_ _”_ _there’s a shine of tears in her eyes, “loved me,_ _loved me more than I could ever contain._ _”_ _  
  
Solas nods motioning for her to continue.  
  
“And that’s _ _Herah though the kith calls her_ _Adaar_ _.” Harel points to the red-haired one, “she’s like my sister, though we’re not related. She’s the quickest Vashoth I’ve ever seen in my life.” a giggle, “_ _I_ _did everything she did;_ _they started calling both of us Adaar when I wouldn’t stop following her. I wanted to be like_ _her so badly_ _, fast and brave._ _She is my Sataareth, my defender._ _”  
  
The small Qunari is _ _passing a bowl to the hardened Qunari, who takes it willingly before flicking the child’s forehead.  
  
A laugh resounds _ _around the table_ _as the girl spits a_ _crude_ _witticism at the_ _leader_ _; she_ _throws one_ _back just as easily.  
  
“Shokrakar, our leader. Her common tongue is terrible but when she speaks Qunlat,” Harel sighs, looking at the exchange, “she’s like a poet. _ _She was a Vidathiss so she’s smart_ _**and** _ _scary._ _Another Tal-Vashoth._ _”  
  
“_ _I take it, she_ _is where you get your_ _barbed tongue_ _?” the bald elf says, not taking his eyes away from the table.  
  
Harel nods, _ _a dreamy look on her face; a tinge of contentment_ _.  
  
Solas stands, now pacing a field of snow surrounded by mountains.  
  
“Ma serannas, Lethallan, for sharing with me,” he says with a smile, “dreams can often be a place of pain and regret, _ _recalling can lead to sorrow which attracts Despair._ _I am pleased to see it does not poison your soul.”  
  
The Herald lifts herself up rolling her shoulders.  
  
“_ _Ma nuvenin, Hahren.”, she looks to the brazier next to Solas, “Now, where are we and why is that there?”  
  
Solas waves his hand, a blue flame sparking in the torch’s mouth, “Meet me at the edge of the camp, Dread Wolf.”  
  
_

* * *

  
She awakes with a start, words falling from her lips before she can open her eyes, “Fuckingfucking what wait?”  
  
Mother Giselle rests a hand on her shoulder.  
  
_Whoops  
_“I apologize, Mother. They would cut my tongue out in the Qun for speaking that way to a priestess,” she says, clutching her side. They would cut her tongue out regardless, being a Saarebas.  
  
“I take no offence, Herald.” a kind smile, a spark of hope among the snowy ashes. _  
  
_Her ears twitch as she finally listens to the world around her. Shouting. Many people shouting. She sits up then regrets and holding herself up on her elbows.  
  
Her Advisors, bickering relentlessly. Relief, _fucking relief,_ as she sees a familiar face trying to quell the Seeker and Spymaster’s fight.  
  
Josephine, looking oddly Ferelden.  
She has forgone the blues and gold of her office, most likely due to it being soaked in blood. Fur-lined boots and leather hosen with a light chainmail cuirass, one of Leliana’s no doubt, from the looks of the tapered blue and silver. She had her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, a cloak meeting her neck to shield her from the elements.  
  
Mythal, she was adorable.  
Harel would laugh if she hadn’t been, well, enchanted.  
Granted it was _odd_ to see her dressed so plainly but she was still radiant, no matter what she wore.  
  
And then she looked closer and her heart broke.  
  
Josephine didn’t look...healthy? She was still half out her mind with soul sickness, exhaustion and exposure. Even from this distance, she could see the pinched expression, tired, bloodshot eyes, red-rimmed and puffy with tears. Her lips were chapped from the cold and she looked as though she would fall asleep standing up.  
  
It made her chest hurt; the pain. The pain of losing Haven, the pain of losing good, hardworking people and the pain of watching this compassionate, beautiful soul wither under the stress, the horrors.  
  
And yet, despite everything, the Antivan was a beacon to her, and she, a stupid little moth who would be too happy to burn in her golden flame.  
  
Harel watched them fight, then the Ambassador all but collapsed onto a wooden bench, head in one hand, the other hanging limply. Leliana sat near her, hand on her knee speaking softly to the diplomat.  
It was good she had a friend.  
It was good Leliana had a friend.  
It was moving their whole display. Mythal, though the Spymaster was not too keen of the Herald and, oftentimes, aloof, she was more than grateful the Nightingale cherished her friend so fiercely.  
  
Like Herah and Harel, Adaar and Adaar. Two sisters, unrelated by blood but bound.  
  
Mother Giselle regaled to her, the story of her rise, fall and return; her voice so soft and calming, the Herald almost leapt back into the Fade.  
  
Now was unfortunately not the time. She looked to the edge of the camp, _ah fuck_ , which edge Solas? Well, it was time to go exploring then. Her legs were shaky, her body still numbed from the cold, but she ignored it all, raising up by bracing on her knee, she bid the Reverend Mother goodbye and slowly walked away from the tent.  
She made her way to the fire where the Spymaster looked up at her, eyes cutting without having to try. She looked like a wounded Mabari, looking to fend off intruders but too tired to resist.  
The Ambassador sprang up with more energy she thought was in her and wrapped herself around the Herald, desperate and clinging.  
  
“Maker, I thought you perished in that avalanche.” she breathed into the Qunari elf’s shoulder, “You were missing for hours, I thought-”  
  
She pulled away and looked up at Harel, the gold rings flaring in the firelight.  
  
“If you say, ‘you are fine’, I will electrocute you,” the Herald japed, “considering I feel like an Archdemon stepped on me.”  
  
That comment received a stronger huddling into to her shoulder, and a laugh, Mythal, that laugh. She didn’t think she’d hear it again.  
  
The Antivan released her hold and placed both hands on her arms, squeezing.  
It grounded her.  
  
“I have to go meet Solas, he has something important to tell me.” she grabbed one of the hands on her arms, “Do you know where he is?”  
  
Josephine held the Herald’s palm in her own and forced out, “The eastern part of the camp.”  
  
The Qunari elf smiled, warmly, her eyes like the magic thread she weaved in Haven; hushing, embracing. She brought the hand to her lips and kissed it.  
Harel didn’t dare look at Leliana lest she caught the woman sharpening her daggers.  
  
Her heartbeat, too hard in her ears, her throat parched but not from uncontrolled magic.  
From this.  
Josephine wore a heavy blush now, which should help bring some warmth to her body.  
  
Reckless little Antivan had no damn gloves on in this weather.  
  
“Now put this on, lest you catch your death,” Harel slipped off both of her leather gloves and placed them in the Ambassador’s hands, “And if you die because of cold hands, I’ll become a Necromancer and revive you just to admonish you.”  
  
“I shall take that into consideration then” the woman replied, “your chivalry is appreciated, Harel. Thank you.”  
  
The mage gave a shallow bow and took her leave, trying to ignore Leliana’s gaze on the back of her neck.  
Future, past, present, the woman was still terrifying.  
  
“Must you glare at her like she is a demon?” Josephine chided to the Spymistress, taking a seat on the bench as Leliana fidgeted on the snow.  
  
“Pfft. A desire demon maybe, the woman hangs off your every word.” a knee bumped into her head, “I thought you were against violence, Josie.” she said rubbing the spot she’d been whacked in.  
  
“I do not employ nor encourage violence unless it is _absolutely_ the last resort.” The diplomat sharply tugged Leliana’s hood over the Spymaster’s face, “and you left me no choice. I must defend her honour if there is no one else to do so.”  
  
The two followed in Harel’s suit and laughed, laughed to drive away the bad and only welcome the good.  
They were tired to their very core, afraid, unsure of what to do, where to go.  
But they will find a way.  
The Herald will find a way.  
  
Of that, Josephine had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from that thing,uh, Transfigurations 10:1, Andraste's Sermon at Valarian Fields. etc etc just a piece  
> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> You can't look me in the eye and tell me Josephine hiked all that way with the boys in *that monstrosity of a uniform*. So I did a lil changey changey changey ye ye.
> 
> Translations:  
> Vashedan-crap/a swear word of any kind  
> She'va dhal- an exclamation  
> Asala-taar- Soul sickness; PTSD  
> Parshaara- Enough!  
> basra- deroggatory term for non-qunari  
> Sataareth- "that which upholds;" an enforcer, defender, or foundation  
> Vidathiss- A rank within the priesthood; a re-educator for captured and conquered peoples.  
> Ma serannas- My thanks./Thank you. (come on, yall know this one)  
> Ma nuvenin- As you say  
> Somniari-Dreamer
> 
> Its fun bc Sataareth means foundation and in that Chant they say the maker something something her foundation and her sword and then the light and the moth to a flame. Yea. I like tying shit together.
> 
> Either way yea, until next time or so or such or something.


	6. Risen from the ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scout to the North, be their guide.  
> He makes it sound easy, like being worshipped and depended on is simple.  
> It makes her feel overwhelmed, then a voice, like a bird landing on her shoulder,  
> "You will be fine"
> 
> She raises the sword.  
> She incites laughter.
> 
> She inspires hope.

Blackwall had virtue; solid, unshakeable valour. He had faith in those who sought to do good, by the sweat of their brow, by the words they spoke, but most importantly, by their actions. 

He had no qualms with The Lady Herald, even though she didn’t speak a great amount to him; granted he may have spooked her a little in the Hinterlands when he growled at her to _stop dancing._ Even so, after plucking up her courage, she threw herself back to him and tried to form some kind of camaraderie. She attempted to be respectful with him, traipsing wearily around his brooding demeanour, always looking for the right moment to strike hardest with a joke. Sometimes the japes would fall flat on its ass, eliciting no response from the dour man.   
  
Other times, however, she managed to catch him with a bawdy tale or an exaggerated impersonation of Madame de Fer.  
She loved making fun of the Orlesian Enchantress, eyes narrowed, lips puckered, nose to the sky and ending every sentence with the cold bite of " _my deeeaaaaarrrrr"_.  
  
The Herald tried to catch him off-guard, and when she did he had no other option but to laugh.  
  
And so she gained his cautious friendship instead of his ire; which then grew into the starts of a legitimate companionship, the Herald being less afraid of the man's grumpy demeanour but still cautious in case she accidentally joked where jokes should not be made.   
  
Like Cassandra had said many times before, _"The Herald holds nothing sacred."  
  
_It wasn't a set in stone truth, but it wasn't a complete lie either.

The Herald was indeed an ass, thankfully not a disrespectful one.  
  
Blackwall used to see her wandering Haven, very elfy-like, touching the plants, the snow, the Druffalos, by Andraste's flaming thighs, she loved those damn hairy cows.  
There was always a look of peacefulness on her face when she went through her motions, she looked almost detached, so far away from the blood and bleakness of this world.   
  
She flitted like a ghost amongst the borders of Haven, picking elfroot for the Apothecary or speaking to her mount.  
He could see it in her eyes though, the glassy look turning sharp, and in those moments, he could see the words blazing in her soul.  
  
_In peace, vigilance_  
  
He found a question that nagged him constantly, but he couldn't ask her in that moment. Not when she was so, so, _out of it_.  
It was only after a few weeks had passed that he caught her during her routine visit to the entry bridge. He asked her pointedly, why.  
Why are you doing this and what are you doing this for?  
He needed to know.  
  
_“_ _I quite literally fell ass over tea kettle into this, Ser,” she says grinning, “but I can’t just wallow and complain about oh, this is fucking bullshit, leave me alone, stop staring at me, you bastards. Stop trying to cut off my fucking head for impersonating deities, I didn’t ask for the Anchor, I didn’t ask for any of this.”  
  
A tilt of the head, a crinkle of the brow, a look in the eyes. What was at first, a playful banter turned quickly into a real rant, stopped short by the Herald taking notice of her words.  
  
__“_ _All I know is that there are people who depend on me now. I can’t run away. I wouldn’t be able to live peacefully knowing that me, the only person who can pull these Rifts closed, just walked into the wilderness never to be heard of again like- like some damn tantrum-having child. Because you know damn well people don’t see me as a ‘mature exemplar to uphold the peace’.”  
  
There’s a frown.  
The Herald often laughingly dances around questions; making people forget that they wanted to know more about her; too busy being swept away by a tide of satire and sarcasm.  
It is her shield and when that shield is brought down, even for a second, its an opportunity one must catch quickly, lest she rebuild and retract._

 _It's easy to make Harel talk, but it's hard to make Harel **talk.**  
  
_ _“All of this makes me_ _nauseous and afraid. The more I’m scared, the more I laugh and it helps break the tension in my gut when people laugh with me. I’m telling you Blackwall, it ain’t fucking fun.”  
  
A smile replaces the frown.  
A hand latches on to his shoulder, the first time she’s made physical contact with him since The Hinterlands when she pushed him away from a maul's blow.  
  
_ _“_ _Do your Warden thing, conscript farmers, squawk like a Griffon, do whatever.” a casual grin, “but promise me, when I laugh, you’ll laugh too.”  
  
He grabs her hand, squeezing it in a handshake, a promise forged from skin.  
  
_ _“_ _I’ll cackle like Sera if that’s what it takes to keep you from heaving.”  
  
A snorting laugh always appears when Sera’s name comes up as if reminding her.  
  
_ _“_ _If you don’t then I’ll be losing my lunch in that precious Silverite helmet of yours; proper punishment for disobeying orders.”  
  
He shook his head amicably. The elf was something else._

She was a woman worth following, a gutsy, obnoxious, foul-mouthed, non-human leader who rarely took anything seriously, but a leader none the less.  
  
Which is why, when he won that betting pot Dorian and Varric set up; he was just a tad bit prideful, not because of his bet -well, maybe a _little_ -, but because his faith in the Herald was solidified.  
  
Everyone was worried and traumatised from the loss of Haven, still reeling at the fact the spirited Qunari lived through the avalanche _and_ the encounter with an ancient Darkspawn right after closing a fucking _hole in the sky_. Many people thought her to be a ghost haunting the camp, refusing to believe she had survived until she would come slinking behind them, yelling “ **BOO”** then snickering away with Sera in tow. Her idea of keeping up morale was...albeit not thoroughly inspiring, working nevertheless.   
  


* * *

  
_“_ _Three silvers says we have to set up the Inquisition ass deep in snow.” Varric had offered to the Tevinter mage.  
  
The mage looked at him with a smirk, “Master Tethras, you sly fiend, you would put money against our shining Herald?" he pauses to twirl his moustache, "4 silvers on that outcome.” He slides the coins over the makeshift table, drumming his fingers on his leg.  
  
_ _“_ _And what about you, Warden” Dorian nods in the Blackwall’s direction, “Care to join us or are you just going to sit there stinking and fretting.”  
  
The Warden shifted on his place in the snow near the fire. Bloody toffs, making bets on the very person their lives depended on. He was no gambler, but then again, maybe he can use that faith to his advantage.  
_ _“_ _Three sovereigns.” he said, fishing some gold coins from his pouch, “On the Herald getting us into a real refuge safely. No strings attached.” The gold coins gleaming as he dropped them to the table.  
  
_ _“_ _Bold man,” Varric said through his laughter, “I don’t know how many miracles that girl can pull out of her ass but let’s hope there’s more.”  
  
The dwarf looked off into the distance, Harel stretching in the morning sunlight, getting ready to depart for another day of searching. Blackwall and the mage looked to her in tandem as she brought a leg up to meet her forehead, quickly losing balance and tumbling into the snow with many Qunlat and Elvhen curses.  
  
_ _“_ _We’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.” Blackwall said softly, covering a reprimanding sigh with a small nod, a spark of hope.  
  
_

* * *

  
Harel tapped her boots on the cobblestone paving its way into Skyhold. Damn, this place was too high up in the fucking mountains. Now was probably a bad time to alert the Inquisition of her fear of heights.  
  
Not good but all in all, they did it.  
  
They found a haven from Haven.  
Solas had called her from the camp to speak to her about the remnants of the Elvhen, the empire and its bones which still lay scattered across the Frostbacks.  
  
_“_ _Scout to the North, be their guide”  
  
__“_ _But how much North, Hahren?” Harel had whined, “We can’t just walk forever hoping to come across a magical fortress of the People.”  
  
Solas looked to her thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back, eyes reflecting the blue flame of the torch.  
  
__“_ _Come now,” he said, thoroughly entertained, “You cannot tell me you are named for the Dread Wolf and yet claim to possess none of his senses” eyes turning to the sky, “As I said, Da’len, scout to the North.”  
_  
It was a weary journey filled with intense doubt she let no one see. She didn’t know what to do but she put her faith in Solas’ words. She clawed her way up a rockface, shattered ribs making themself very known, hands aching from the strain, hefting herself up the mountainside to gaze upon the glorious ruins of a Keep left unseen by the Ages.  
  
She felt a hand on her shoulder but her body felt numb from the climbing and hiking and cold and _**pure fucking** shock_.  
  
_“_ _Skyhold.” he had said, standing next to the Herald, expression nostalgic and hopeful._  
  
It was a start, she didn’t really know what to do next but, hey, at least they now had a fuck-huge castle to live in. A dusty, broken down, very mouldy fuck-huge castle, but a home to rest their weary everything none the less.  
  
_Home.  
  
_The word echoed in her head. It was odd, like a hollow in her chest making itself known. It wasn’t joy, it wasn’t sadness, it wasn’t _anything_ really, just a feeling, a pocket of nothing residing in her ribcage, reflecting no emotion but still filling space.   
  
She dismissed the feeling entirely, ignoring the pulling of something, something she couldn't see.  
  
Blue eyes, red-rimmed and draped by blonde hair flashed somewhere atop the Rookery, pulling, trying to grasp her but the distance was too great.   
  
She felt it and tried to find where the feeling was tugging.  
  
Hands on her hips, neck-craning to look at the tallest spire.  
Nausea.  
Stop looking at the fucking high places.   
She abandoned her search, much to the upset of the blue eyes, blurring away like a shadow blending into the night.  
  
The faithful followed close behind her, gawking for once, not at her but at the fortress that just seemed to appear by the will of the Maker’s hand; a miracle if anyone could say so. Harel rested her forearm across the base of her horns as she spotted the Seeker in the distance, under an archway, beckoning her to follow.  
  
So apparently, she proved herself worthy.  
She hopped up the stairs flanked by Cassandra who decided now was a good time to regale her. She spoke reverently of the Inquisition, her trials, her achievements, what the organization represents; slowly wrapping the lecture into an offer.  
  
“The Inquisition needs a leader” she gestured to Leliana who _still_ wouldn’t meet Harel’s eyes, her body bowed, clutching a very embellished sword in both hands. It was an honour, an honour that shouldn’t be given to _something like her_ but, she looked to the Seeker, Cassandra's eyes unwavering in belief. Harel turned her stare to the people, they looked to her like one would to a prophet, to a saviour, to hope.  
The Commander shuffled his feet against the grass, sword hilt grasped, a smile never faltering.  
  
Next to him, was the Ferelden-dressed Antivan, both hands up to cover a grin. They locked eyes as the woman let her hands fall, focusing on the Herald, and mouthed the words that she could never stop hearing.  
  
_“_ _You will be fine”  
  
_Harel looked back to the Left and Right hands, a step taken towards Leliana, eyes finally meeting, softer blue, like Silk Brocade instead of Paragon’s Luster.  
  
There was still a question, a Bronto in the room, per se.  
  
“Your Maker would choose a Qunari Elf hedge mage as his champion?” the Herald queried softly, “One would think I’m every single thing the Chantry would disavow.”  
  
The lack of doubt in the eyes of the Hands was both encouraging and worrying. Leliana took the sword in one hand and twirled its pommel so that the hilt would point at the Herald.  
  
“I see it as a way to broaden the minds of the pious,” her voice was benign, far less icy than anything she came to witness, “and if the people think so badly of the Qunari, Elves and mages, then the Maker has sent you to clear their assumptions.” she smiles, by _Mythal_ she smiles, “You have proven yourself in their eyes. Continue your good work under a new title, _Inquisitor_.”  
  
The scope of the world, of Thedas, settled very snugly on her shoulders; a little too snugly considering the weight was all but suffocating her. It was nice to have Leliana not eye her like a training dummy for once, but the absence of animosity left her eerily...jaded. The position being given to her apparently far outweighed any space for snide remarks or upset in the Nightingale's eyes. The world was counting on her to kill a living legend, an aspiring _God_.  
  
The pressure.  
  
_The pressure._  
  
The force was choking her.  
  
It scared her.  
  
The ice, creeping slowly through her legs, unseen as it lay in slick sheets on the inside of her skin. She-  
  
_“_ _You will be fine”  
  
_Yes.  
  
Yes, she would be fine.  
  
She _will_ be fine.  
  
Now is not the time for despair, now is the time for action, for grandeur.  
  
Harel took the pommel in her hand, thoroughly unaccustomed to any kind of swordplay, and stood to the outermost lip of the platform, looking down to the gathering of starry-eyed people. Humans, elves even dwarves, looking expectantly to her for some kind of profession.  
  
“Everyone knows I can be a bit odd. I’ve got the raunchiest mouth in the Frostbacks and the weakest stomach for ale; I’m looking at you Flissa,” the barmaid looked like she was going to faint when her name was hailed, “But know this, I don’t care if you see me as a heretic, a Qunari, an elf or an apostate. What I care about is that we all move together, each step pushing us forward, like a hand gripping a sword as tightly as it grips a loved one. We will all stand above Corypheus and laugh, **LAUGH** in his face for the Inquisition is not me, _it’s you_ , it’s the people!”  
  
“Have the people been told,” Cassandra stepped forward to stand with the Herald, no, the _Inquisitor_.  
  
“Yes! And soon, the world!” came the twitter of their Ambassador, smile shining like gold. 

“Commander! Will they follow?!” Again, the bark of the Seeker rang behind her ears.  
  
Cullen turned himself to the masses, a bastion in armour, a beacon to follow the sun.  
  
“INQUISITION! **WILL YOU FOLLOW**?!”  
  
Ear-splitting cheers, wild and raucous, just like her, just like their leader.  
  
Harel breathed in a huge breath, she could feel the Seeker cringe inwardly; _oh no.  
  
_“WE WILL BE **VICTORIOUS**!!!!” she screamed, her voice echoing through every part of the Keep, laying her claim by way of sound.  
  
Harel raised the sword high, bronzed snake twisting around the hilt, metal glinting like the light in a Chantry candle.   
  
Everyone went mad like a tribute to their plucky Herald.  
Screaming, cackling, applauding.  
She even caught the lovely Lady sinking into her Ferelden wear, becoming like one of the people, hand raised high, a warcry, a brilliantly shining cheer, eyes burning with _life_.  
  
And then Cullen looked at her andruined _everything_.  
  
She clammed up, hand to her mouth, _painfully_ aware of her display. She may be in common garb, but her training in propriety still held an iron grip.  
Her eyes met the Inquisitor’s, an embarrassed stare turned into a laugh behind a delicate hand.  
  
Harel snorted, then looked at the sword she held aloft.  
  
She wondered.  
  
Lowering the blade, she gripped the haft tightly and tried to finesse the sword as Leliana did.  
  
Of course, having no training, she instead sent the damn thing tumbling down to the earth where it stuck firmly in the dirt near the bushes.  
Her eyes were wide with embarrassment, hands still outstretched to where she tried to catch the spinning blade.  
  
Everyone was watching.  
  
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeee….” was all that came through her clenched teeth and worried expression.  
  
Sera was the first to laugh, of course, she was, then Blackwall, even frosty Vivienne made a sharp amused noise. The crowd followed suit, belting out the most ecstatic chorus of deranged laughter she’d ever heard. Even the Seeker, known so well for her groans of disgust and angry looks, breathed a light chuckle at the sheer _lunacy_ of the Herald.  
  
“Cassandra I-”  
  
“Ugh,” drawled the Seeker as she clomped her way down the stairs to retrieve the sword, the world back to its rightful balance.  
  
Green eyes, green as the Fade, looked upon the people as they tried to regain their composure. It was freeing, that in this time of horror and loss, there was triumph, laughter, _joy_.  
She caught Josephine in her gaze who gave her a small wave in a borrowed glove - _her glove_ \- before she began her trek up the stairs to where the Inquisitor stood.  
  
A wistful sigh.  
She was the light at the end of a dark, frigid tunnel.  
Or more accurately, a dark, frigid mountainside.  
  
“If you can stop leering at our Ambassador in front of everyone, that would be fantastic.” whispered the Spymaster into a pointed ear.  
  
Ghilan'nain's furry tits, when did that damn bard get so close and how did she not hear her coming.   
  
Oh right, _bard_.  
  
“I-I am not leering.” Harel stuttered loud enough for Leliana to hear over the cheers; a weak response.   
  
“If you are not ogling, then I am the King of Orzammar.” the Spymistress spoke close enough to bite her ear off if she wanted to, “now put your eyes back in your skull and let us go inside, non?”  
  
A tone, sweet, like honey coated on the tip of thorn, daring her to take a lick.   
  
Harel scrubbed her palms through her hair, trying to ease the pressure of an oncoming headache. Her braid slowly unravelled as she withdrew her hand to find soot. It was, well, disgusting yes, but also a wholesome reminder; clutching ashes to her chest to keep her warm, a trial conquered.  
  
“I will see if we can get a bath drawn for you,” the Herald heard a lilting voice coming from the side, “There must be fresh water somewhere here.”  
  
It was their diplomat, their tired, messy-haired, _wonderful_ diplomat ascending the stairs, eyes full of gold and stars instead of tears and trauma.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me I had this much ash in my hair?” the elf said, hands rubbing together, only creating more of a mess, “I swear I scrubbed-No-Why didn’t _anyone_ tell me I was missing not one but _several_ spots?”  
  
Josephine gave a small gesture of resignation as she encircled the Herald’s wrist in her hand and pulled her towards the big fuck-off doors to the fortress.  
  
"My _Lady_ ," the elf said, thoroughly being an ass, standing to her side, "You're pulling me!" an eyebrow flies up, "Is that not the behaviour of _rubes_?"  
  
"The people have already seen me covered in blood, wearing this _ghastly fashion"_ she motions with her free hand to the shapeless, ugly boots, "and screaming like a seagull." she frets, "And it is just us here, with your inner circle. I highly doubt a scandal can propagate here."  
  
They go up yet another flight of stairs, before Josephine chimes in again.   
  
“I suppose the reason I didn't speak of the ash,” she said, leaning briefly into the Inquisitor, “is due to the fact you look quite nice with black hair. Truly, it suits you.” a lowering of the voice, "And you should wear your hair out more often."  
  
"Yes, wear my hair out so that I can't see where I'm casting and end up punching a hole through Varric." the Inquisitor replied dryly, "And the soot! Josephine! Hygiene is important! Do you take me for Blackwall?"  
  
"I swear, you are looking to quarrel with the man with the way you speak." there is a glittering to her eyes, the fog is gone or at least, pushed back, far, far back.  
  
She hopes the sickness can be cured. Asala-taar.  
  
A laugh, which turned into two as Harel joined in, hoping the chattering would make her forget, would make them forget of everything that's happened, even for a brief moment.  
  
She was being pulled now, with force and lagging behind, eyes stuck to the fur-coated back and swinging ponytail. It felt similar to many days ago with her cord of magic wrapped around a fragile-minded, blood-soaked noblewoman. This time though, it was the opposite; a physical hand, a feeling of embracing, hushing, coming off from her skin, her being. No green wisps, no green cord, just.  
  
Existence.  
  
Harel smiled as Cullen walked past the pair quickly to assist with the doors which had jammed after years of rust and underuse.  
  
They were two worlds,  
The Fade and the earth,  
Magic and man,  
Nobility and Notoriety.  
  
And yet, in this moment, they were the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was something. 
> 
> Scout to the North. But which way is North? AND HOW FAR SOLAS. EXPLAIN.
> 
> I cant stop saying Ghilan'nain's furry tits.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading. I will never not say that, you know that right?
> 
> Go outside and play, put your mask on, have fun.


	7. A Dancing Halla named for a Trickster Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What to do about Corypheus?  
> She thinks.  
> She tries to guide a lost Spirit; she tries to be like Taashath  
> Cole tries to understand her and in some odd way, she understands him.  
> Leliana is akin to a mother hen, if a hen had claws, knives and poison.
> 
> She tries to remember peace.
> 
> And everything, no matter how fast you run away, always comes back around.

Steepled fingers covering her mouth and nose, elbows on the wall, back bent forward, looking over the tents near Skyhold’s entrance.  
  
So the God wants to kill the Empress.  
  
A damn good way to throw an entire nation out of balance.  
She sighs, the thought of politics hurts her head.  
  
That’s what they had Josephine for, to deal with the unseen fights that come in the form of rebukes and letters.  
  
But now, she had to prepare to smile and look pretty in front of a legion of ogling nobles all while she saved their _fucking_ empire. All three of her Advisors had spoken in a heated discussion at the possibility of Celene’s death, the possibility of everything going fuck-wild mad.  
  
Who’s doing what, who wants what, who is looking to kill whom for what.  
  
Ugh.  
  
Eyes closed, breathing in and out.  
  
_Kost_.  
  
She wishes she could just dream, pluck at Taashath in the Fade, meet him and reminisce, be at peace and learn and love and laugh.

 _Laugh._  
  
He’s been silent since she was hauled into Haven as a prisoner.  
  
A flare of green nearly blinds her as she pulls her hands away from her face, magic scar pulsating from the upset in her mind.  
That damn Anchor, it must have done something to her, something to block Taashath from their meeting place.  
  
Or maybe she was the one being cordoned off.  
  
It made her head _hurt._ **  
  
**And then she feels the pulling that she felt in the courtyard many days ago atop the Rookery.  
Trying to hush, trying to understand and assuage, trying to communicate without words.  
  
Like two fishes circling a pond, both swimming against a current that wasn't there.  
**  
****He appears as if from nowhere, but young men do not just** **materialize** **.  
  
**Cole stalks the walls like a spider running through the cracks. A hand passing gently over each stone like a mother to a child’s burning forehead.  
  
He’s made himself known before; two mages quibbling about a boy who wasn’t there.  
  


She promised Solas she’d talk him, much to Vivienne’s disapproval -it was so hard to please that woman- and has tried to look out for him.  
  
She had caught him by the tents, approaching like a shadow being pushed by the sun, a scarecrow who does not frighten.  
  
He knew mercy, but it was twisted, only knowing how to permanently stop pain when slow healing was a better path.  
  
Though maybe it wasn’t better; maybe morally, it just felt that way.  
  
Harel had stopped him from taking a knife to a dying man, the boy was so overwhelmed by wanting to grant peace that he just....just thought death to be the only answer-  
  
“But it’s important to choose where you go, to not know the outcome, to have faith” the boy is next to her instead of by the gate’s walls, “People should be allowed to live and breathe even when it hurts. Hand in my hand, he pulls me away, like a ribbon snapping but it was already frayed; never tied, they wanted to burn it.” his voice gets quieter, “Suledin.”  
  
“Endure...” Harel said to the spirit, acknowledging his speech, calming her mind so as not to upset him, “I see you’re still stalking our little infirmary.” she turns to him, “Are you sure it doesn’t upset you? Can you tell me about the places it hurts to stay in?”  
  
She asks the question gently, her mind awash with peace; Taashath said spirits need gentle direction, emotions as markers instead of words. While Cole was....something in-between the living and the Fade, he still needed something to remind him; his connection to The Beyond still holding him tightly but not enough for him to return. He tries to smile, he’s awkward, unable to express himself without pulling and connecting but he makes an attempt and she appreciates the fact.  
  
“The tents, they’re full of raw, sad, angry, hot welts of hurt. The tower has icy undercurrents; it’s noisy and Dorian is too...shiny but there’s a crack, like in a pot, when he thinks and the pain comes dripping out and dulls the shine. Leliana isn’t any better, like a rose on a dying bush, but it’s turning to stone” he frowns, obviously bothered that he couldn’t immediately wash away either person’s pain.  
  
Harel, very softly, puts a hand on the boys back; a motion he was expecting and he walks with the movement, knowing that she’s pushing him along, guiding him.  
  
They were standing near the stairs to Skyhold’s grand hall, but now she’s leading him to look at the tavern.  
  
“Cole,” she starts, “do you-”  
  
“I don’t mind if you call me Compassion.” he cuts her off, “Taashath sits me down in front a spectre, it’s whispering, tapping on my skull asking, no, _imparting_? I am Learning.” blue eyes are now apologetic, “It’s just a name, I don’t....I’m sorry, you were talking...”  
  
The Inquisitor nods and he understands the swirling in her head for a moment. She’s stamping down the pain, the noise, to make a platform for him, she wants him to float, but she can’t do it for long. He’s a darling, a boy spirit thing that doesn’t understand boundaries, but a darling none the less.  
  
“It’s easy to get lost. Remember to breathe, ok? You are here,” she lectures him, the words taking shape in her mind and tongue to drive the point home, “and it’s no problem, you’re still learning, Cole.” Harel continues walking the boy to the new tavern, “But how does this place make you feel.”  
  
Head bowed down, hat brim like an eclipse over his haggard face.  
  
He’s concentrating.  
  
“There’s pain, and sadness, wet and muffled, like someone’s pulling a cloth over their eyes and mouth but...” he tilts his head to the side, blank stare but confused, “...it’s....better? Hope but pressed into a palm” he gives a light snicker as if he’s surprised he’s doing it, “Empress of Fire, she sings it well.”  
  
He seems pleased with this notion but Harel is momentarily distracted by the feeling of eyes burrowing into her skull. She catches the Seeker’s glare who _very much_ does not like the presence of their new member.  
  
_The Demon_ she called him.  
_The Spirit_ the Inquisitor had ground back.  
  
He is far from corrupted. He is gentle and kind, willing, even if he forgets to _not make people forget Cole no no you can’t just do that!  
  
_“I would like to stay here.” she heard him mutter next to her, “It, it’s not smooth and it stings a little, but I can....” head turned, eyes clear through the blonde hair, “I can help.” _  
  
_She pats him on the back, a wide grin on her face.  
“Good-” Harel says, though her mood is a little off now that the boy has chosen to stare at her, unblinking once again, grin melting away immediately. A frown has settled, “Something else?”  
  
“You have that space in yourself, a stone that rattles, hitting the walls of the well as it goes down.” he says, connecting with her as if trying to wrench the emotion from her “I saw it in Haven, I saw it here when you first came.”  
  
A hollow in her chest.  
He explains it, yet shrouds it, the meaning still left unclear.  
He seemed unusually stuck to her though, like the pull of gravity, yanking him back as he tries to run away. Like a leaf in a whirlpool. He doesn’t show it, but he’s shaking apart, overwhelmed and confused by a hurt that hurts that isn’t hurt and shouldn’t be hurting because it _doesn’t exist._  
  
“Ah” he hears himself in her mind, “I’m sorry, I just...it swims but it doesn’t, like you’re missing something that was never missed, like-like trying to grab water when you’re not thirsty, I-it’s pain but it’s not it’s-” she sees him struggling, trying to understand the hollow within her but he begins sinking in her void, losing himself.  
  
“Breathe. Cole, breathe, get out of my head and breathe.” she takes the boy by the shoulders and shakes him, but not too hard, “You’re drowning. Breathe.”  
  
The spirit gasps, forgetting he has lungs, forgetting he isn’t floating, forgetting air.  
  
Harel is bothered, that much is evident by the pained expression and she _knows_ that he can feel her disquiet. She didn’t expressly hate him digging around in people’s heads or getting lost in her own, she was just concerned.  
  
Concerned he would find Despair in a sea of thoughts and roiling emotions.  
  
Concerned that he would find Rage in the injustices the people met.  
  
Concerned that his place here, would consume and warp him into a demon.  
  
Taashath said spirits who come to the real world often get lost and go mad, malevolently changing from the very moment the earth meets their forms. She’s seen it all too well in every Rift she ventures, every Spirit turned Demon from the mere physicality of this world.  
  
But Cole wasn’t truly a spirit.  
Neither was he human.  
He was Cole.  
And she liked Cole.  
  
He had calmed the fire when she was coughing smoke.  
All he wanted to do was help; how could she possibly fault that?  
  
Nothing but a green-eyed stare levelled to the boy; grounding, keeping, comforting.  
  
“Thank you. I’ll try....You...” he says, understanding the newest bubble in her mind, he looks at her, a real smile, a real light in his eyes as he plucks something warm from her, a memory from the bridge “I will be fine.”  
  
The Spirit is gone, fluttering his wings to another part of the Keep; imparting the knowledge, speaking instead of pulling.  
  
The Inquisitor brings a hand to squeeze the base of her horns, yet another headache marching its way forward. What a motley fucking crew this Inquisition was. Spirit demon people, novelist dwarves, rude city elves, homeland Qun bastards, purebred snarky Tevinter mages, the list goes on.  
  
As if on cue, out the corner of her eye, she can see Bull waving his meaty arms at her, shouting loudly, “BOOOSS!!! COME MEET THE TEAM!!! STOP PUTTING ME OFF AND GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!!!”  
  
Her fucking _ears_.  
  
She grabs her head.  
  
Ah, there’s the headache.  
  
She was close enough for him _not_ _to_ shout but he knew that, fucking Ben-Hassrath.  
Loved to piss her off.  
  
A few steps were made towards Bull, but she stopped. Her eyes scanned her surroundings quickly, no Cole.  
  
And from what she noticed, no one realized the boy was there either, like he never existed, like he was just dust blowing past them and into the sky.  
  
It made her almost sad for him. To be forgotten before you can even be remembered.  
  


* * *

  
“You’ve become very good friends.”  
  
It was a statement directed at the door, feigning disinterest.  
Damn Leliana and her games.  
  
“We have settled into a very amicable understanding.” the Ambassador says in a monotone, pen moving in an unbroken straight line of words, “And I would appreciate it if you would eject yourself from the conversation entirely.”  
  
A red eyebrow raised. Such _spicy_ talk!  
  
They settled back into a companionable silence, waiting for their Commander and Inquisitor to finish training; a raven had perched on the War Room window minutes ago to notify them of the absence.  
  
Which meant she gets to prod Josie for information till she squeals.  
However, being a skilled player of the Game, getting her to do so would take some time. She was their chief diplomat after all, an unbreakable wall of social dexterity lay between her and any salacious, insider gossip.  
  
She was back in her gold and blue uniform, glittering all about as if she hadn’t walked several miles looking like a shoddy peasant rogue. Not a hair out of place, even when her eyes looked tired, staring out the window, remembering, sinking, then snapping back to herself.  
  
It covered Leliana with dim worry; she would get to the bottom of that spate of emotions when the time was right. She was still minutely subdued since Haven, it would be cruel to force her to speak while she wasn’t ready.  
  
Right now, however, she can force some teasing and maybe a little ire, devoid of loss or pain.  
Something fun.  
  
“An amicable understanding” the Spymistress starts up, sarcasm laid thick “which of course explains the hugs and the looks, oh and let us not forget,” blue eyes turned on the Antivan, “the way she kissed your hand in the camp. Oh yes,” a jeer, “how very friendly indeed.”  
  
Grey hazel eyes met her in a stare, her face blank but there was a sharpness in the gaze, an untempered, raw, _bite_.  
It was a look that made the Spymaster remember why she recommended her for the Inquisition; a look that can make a Chevalier soil himself.  
  
“Are you looking to make conflict where there is none, Spymaster?”  
  
Defensive.  
Odd, considering Josephine is normally excellent at a little teasing banter, never taking things too personally.  
  
“Put away your knives, Josie,” Leliana takes a step towards the diplomat, laughter skating off her breath, “Niceness, remember?”  
  
A sigh, then the quill is placed in the inkpot, the Ambassador looks to the candle on her clipboard, eyes taking in the flame then facing the Nightingale.  
  
“You _willfully_ antagonize her like she is some,” a dismissing hand goes up, “ribald hellion looking to feast on my soul when you know very well she is just unconventional.”  
  
“I agree with calling her ribald,” the Spymistress earned a playful tap to her arm, “and maybe she is no monster, in a _literal_ sense" grey eyes narrow at the words, "but she is young and foolish, prone to flights of fancy and over-excitable.” a smirk, “Like someone I remember at the Duke de Laurent’s ball.”  
  
An embarrassed flush came across Josephine’s cheeks as she lowered her head slightly.  
  
“Will you and Yvette ever let me just...? I was still-.” she pushes the Spymistress with her shoulder, placing her clipboard on the table to free her hands to bury her face, “ _I had no idea the man was propositioning me!_ ”  
  
“You were making such joyful, witty banter with the Duke until he leaned into your ear, thinking _you_ were propositioning _him!_ You turned as _red_ as a cherry; gaping like a fish!” Leliana teased, “Before you played the Game like you play cards, you made the most delightful missteps; utterly _guileless_.” she pulls at her gloves, “In many ways, you still are.”  
  
“It is good that I have matured then.” the diplomat says, amused but strict, "Maker forbid I accidentally betroth myself by way of pure naivety."   
  
The prior bristling was gone, Josephine reclaims her clipboard to begin writing again but Leliana still hovered close, “I am simply looking out for your well-being. I do not want to see you hurt,” a gentle, gentle voice, “I admit, our Inquisitor is far from banal, but she is-”  
  
“What? A beast? An apostate?” there is quiet rage, an instant flare in the Ambassador’s voice as she grips her hands on the clipboard a little too tightly, “You said that the Maker sent her to change our minds, yet you act as though you do not believe your own words!”  
  
A thought, fleeting but heavy in her mind.  
  
_“Dread Wolf take this child. Fen’Harel.” Eyes pained, empty, burned out and near tears.  
  
_“She is my friend.” she commands to the Spymisstress, eyes resolute, charring the Orlesian.  
Oh Inquisitor, your cow eyes for our Ambassador certainly didn't work.   
She has called you her friend, quite adamantly in fact.  
Good.  
  
But the Spymisstress is still irritated by Josie's words.  
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her own words. It was the fact that anyone, no matter magic or man, had the capability of hurting others.  
  
Everyone has the ability to hurt anyone.  
  
The Mistress thinks of Marjolane, thinks of the charm and tact she sees in the Qunari, yet at the same time, she sees Lyna.  
And Lyna lacked malice.  
Maybe the Qunari too lacked malice, she certainly wasn’t unkind.  
But things can change, people can put up a facade.  
And the plucky thing seemed to wear that smile like armour.  
Maybe.  
She’ll have to see.  
  
It was hard to trust a dancing Halla when they were named for a trickster wolf.  
  
And though Josephine could charm wolves to dance with hares, she didn't want to see her bitten from the attempt.  
  
“I see.” Leliana whispers apologetically, “I am sorry, I will try to be more affable to _un crétin_.”  
  
It is a half-truth, something which the bard excelled at.  
She will attempt to be less antagonistic to the Herald but _only_ in front of Josie.  
  
And not starting today.  
  
They are back to waiting, before Leliana strikes up yet another conversation in fluent Orlesian. She craves the speech of her ‘mother’ tongue occasionally but Vivienne is too chilling a conversationalist. She speaks to Josie who coats warmth over every syllable, Antivan accent drifting lightly over the words. She laughs, a bright chatter covered by a hand.  
  
Yes, the world would be a worse place if she passed or became broken.  
  
Leliana swore she would prevent that, prevent her from becoming cold and cynical like herself.  
  
There is a rattle to the door as it opens, cutting the two off from conversation.  
A glare is set in place, bitter, cold and hostile.  
  
Cullen steps in, stiffening from the look, wondering what in the Maker’s drunken Breath did he do now.  
  
“Commander,” Leliana acknowledges.  
  
Merde, wrong person.  
It didn’t matter, Cullen was used to her general iciness even if today’s look was far more potent.  
  
He moves with quiet caution, to take up the space between the two women. Leliana stepped slowly away from the Ambassador, a disapproving look on the diplomat’s face.  
  
“ _Niceness before knives, Leliana!”,_ she hears the all too bubbly chirp in her head, _“Haven’t I always told you?”_  
  
The tapping of boots against stone, growing louder.  
The wolf is coming at a remarkable speed.  
  
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m late,” the Inquisitor stumbles in, hand on the door, swinging in like a damn rampaging Bronto, “I was with Stanton” a wide smile at Cullen, “then Varric and Cassandra decided now was a good time to try and _actually_ kill each other! I swe-”  
  
She is cut off as she looks to her Advisors, catching Josephine in a brief glance before the Spymisstress’ eyes gouge into her soul.  
  
It was a glacial, menacing look.  
  
Harel still had her hand braced to the handle, moving very, very slowly, to slink back to the hall and close the door, never breaking eye contact with the Orlesian the entire time.  
  
“I’ll come back later!” came a muffled shout from the door.  
  
“Leliana!” Josephine chided, “Are you completely serious?!”  
  
Cullen shot a questioning look to the Mistress, then the door.

Maker, what did the elf do to make their Spymaster so _contentious_.  
  
“ _Dead_ serious.” the bard said, a little too much enthusiasm in the ‘dead’ part.  
  
“How dare you!” came the Qunari elf, swinging back in, brass balls back in place. “I can hear you being more dramatic than me and that’s an Inquisition tenant no one has the right to break!”  
  
Then the plucky thing mellows, but only briefly.  
  
“Ambassador,” the elf bows her head, eyes on the Lady, “sorry to keep you waiting.”  
  
“It is quite alright.” she replies cordially, a small curtsey.  
  
Ugh, a disgustingly saccharine display.  
  
“Soooo” the Inquisitor hops over to the War Table, drumming her hands on the wood, sending map markers tumbling, “there’s a dragon in the Hinterlands, a gorgeous Ferelden Frostback.” the mage leans over the table, eyes wide and smile beaming, “and she’s been calling my name ever since I cleared the Crossroads.”  
  


* * *

  
Apparently going off to fight an exquisite dragon was not an option at the moment. Bull had Qun bullshit to do, reports and such and such and then Leliana to consult with the same Qun bullshit. She wasn’t going out there unless she had her Dragon Hunters team assembled, and Bull was a _very_ important part.  
  
So she spent the little free time she had trying to use a staff.  
Swinging the oiled wood in the courtyard as puffs of smoke bubbled from the tip. She couldn’t see it, and didn’t _want_ to see it, but she knew Vivienne was probably amusing herself on the balcony with the pitiful display of an untrained savage.  
  
Ugh.  
  
Again, twirling the wood, focusing her mana and summoning a flame, but not inside, outside, manifest _outside_. The wood heated gently, then she felt a pain in her muscles like they were being stretched far too taut. Losing her grip she let the staff clatter and roll away, hands still hurting from the strain.  
  
Maybe it was better to stick to what she knew.  
  
Just throw magic at her enemies from a distance; like one would a ball. She could fight close range but it was risky, she carried no weapons except a small blade _in case_ Herah had warned her. If she was able to, a strong pulse of electricity was enough to make a man’s heart literally explode.  
  
Messy but effective.  
  
Enemies often took her for a rogue due to her stance, light, quick, ready to pounce, and charged her, hoping to break her bones before she can draw a dagger.  
They always ran in a straight line, thinking her unprepared, caught off guard.  
  
An energy barrage of pure lightning was always the last thing they saw.  
  
Fun.

It’s evening in Skyhold, dusk settling sluggishly on the surprisingly mild-weathered Keep. People have quickly made the fortress into a sanctuary, little shops have opened, plants dotting the grounds, even a small group of children, unburdened, go running past.  
  
They look up at her as they run, yelling their greetings and she wants to run with them but that _damn staff_ has her drained.  
Hedge mages can never form magic the same way as Circle mages but, maybe with practice, she can do something else with the fucking stick, use it as storage instead of a catalyst.  
  
Mmmm, there’s an idea to bring to Dagna.  
  
A hand brushes the hair from her eyes, white braid dangling down. She is lost in her thoughts, letting the wind touch her skin, cooling the growing fire below.  
  
What the fuck was she going to do about Corypheus.  
Nagging her mind, constantly, while she was everywhere.  
What to fucking do about the God.  
  
Not even her time in Emerald Graves gave her peace.  
  
She cracks an eye open to see Scout Harding watching her, waving. She waves back, then massages her forehead, making movements towards the great hall.  
  
The Graves. It was a beautiful place of knotting roots circling the grass, tall trees and their canopies letting only a dappled light through. The Elvhen part of her felt like it was crying out to the history, begging, asking, why? Why did it have to fall away?  
  
She had brought Solas, much to Sera’s annoyance, who walked with her through the pathways of endless green; telling her of the empire he spied in his dreams, the loss, the beauty. He was calming her, much like Taashath when she felt herself spiral, a hand on the shoulder, a reminder of being.  
  
She regained herself, finding balance once more.  
  
It was a defiled forest sanctum, coating blood and beauty in equal strokes. It filled her with belonging even when Sera blew raspberries as she knelt to an Emerald Knight’s grave. She wouldn’t fault the elf for what she believed. Even if they were similar in humour, they will forever differ in how they perceived and accepted the world around them.  
  
It upset her, yes, that Sera was so damn _stubborn_ in her views about the People.  
But that was Sera.  
  
Boot heels clicking, she passes Varric who gestures her towards him.  
Curiosity takes hold.   
  
“Hey Crazy, you’d never guess what a guy who knows a guy who knows _another_ guy gave me. It’s for you, by the way” eyes twinkling his mischievous tales, “as thanks for stopping the Seeker from cutting my head off." an upwards nod, "Open the box.”  
  
Harel spies the package on the table, wrapped neatly in cloth and pries away the covering, the dwarf just _beaming.  
_A jar, unnamed, brown but _very familiar.  
  
_“You brilliant bastard, where the fuck did you find Horn Balm!!!” she uncorks the lid and holds the greenish, wet, gel-like substance to her nose, “Ahhh, if there’s one thing I’ve missed, it’s the smell of sweaty mercenaries slathered in this stuff.”  
  
She pulls the dwarf into a hug as best she can, considering his height, he squeezes back, understanding his gift has been appreciated, “Thank you thank you thank you!!!” she squeals, putting the jar back into the box and turning a smile to the dwarf, “I learned to make my own a while back but nothing beats the real stuff! Thank you!”  
  
“What can I say, I’m a lovable, generous dwarf” Varric smiles, pulling a quill from the table, “Now if you excuse me, I have to see about a stack of Merchant’s Guild papers with my name on it. Literally.”  
  
The Inquisitor bade Varric goodbye, gleefully stepping away with her box of goodies. She was still wearing her own concoction, Arbor Blessing and Elfroot potion mashed into a paste to stop any itchy horns but the real stuff.  
  
Well, the real stuff made her sentimental more than anything.   
Plus it was a damn fine Par Vollen mixture; the best of the best.   
  
Nobles and merchants, warriors and scouts, all paid her notice as she walked past. She got tired of greeting everyone all the time, so many people, all calling her monikers, all asking for attention.  
Pros and cons to everything.   
  
Her eyes never stopped roaming the massive hall; a little bare, maybe she can put up some interesting pictures. A sword? Maybe a sword.  
  
Or a dragon’s head once they were finished with that lovely lady in the Hinterlands.  
  
She spots her throne, a dowdy thing that's all too religious. Maybe the dragon skull can go there instead.  
  
“Inquisitor? Inquisitor Adaar?” a title that was hard to get accustomed to yet hailed so very often, “Inquisitor, may I speak with you.”  
  
Ah.  
  
She turns on her heel, cloth on the box fluttering as she faces the person calling out.  
  
Josephine, out here around the people for once instead of in her office buried under an upsetting amount of missives.  
Ah, she was back to her uniform, all silk and sweetness instead of the adorable plain Ferelden getup.  
The chainmail and hosen certainly looked easier to put on than this ruffled monstrosity.   
But there was something charming about the bright ostentatious wear, like a splash of colour in an all too monochromatic world.  
  
“And to what, do I owe this impromptu meeting, My Lady.”  
  
Propriety.  
Around people, they were Lady Montilyet and Inquisitor Adaar.  
Propriety.  
  
Then she was caught in a look which burrowed, troubled and tumultuous.   
  
The Lady looked stern, Mythal’s breastband, she looked _alot_ stern, a tempered expression which could warrant concern from the Inquisitor and disinterest from an onlooker.  
  
“Lead the way,” the Qunari said bluntly, following the slippered trail of the Ambassador, knowing whatever had their diplomat clenching her teeth was obviously dire.  
  
She led her to the office not once looking back, a warpath made straight to her desk.  
  
Harel closed the door with her heel, listening to the tap of shoes not rigid enough to emphasise her stomping.   
  
Was she angry? Upset?  
Did Harel do something?  
Brief panic, nausea, coldness.  
Something was bothering her, she hoped she hadn't done anything wrong.  
  
She couldn't think of anything she'd done wrong recently.  
  
The Inquisitor placed the box down near the doorway and quickened her pace towards Josephine, trying to tighten the muscles of her throat so as not to projectile vomit.  
  
Her eyes roamed the space, a neat desk, too many fucking stacks of letters from foppish fuckers, but neat. The Antivan withdrew a key from a pouch she carried, unlocking a drawer with eyes never softening, expression never wavering; stress knotting the arches of her brow.  
  
Something hidden, important enough to lock away.  
  
A careful hand brought a weather-worn, crinkled parchment page from its hiding place; Josephine's eyes darting over it, skimming all the words at once in record speed as if to reaffirm what she had seen.  
All it did was make her look angrier.  
Mask off, like in Haven, like on the bridge, in her office, slipping off because....why?   
A question for another time.   
  
She held out the page to the Inquisitor who took it all too willingly; fear twisting inside her gut, ice slowly frosting her eyelashes.  
  
There was no letterhead, no embellishment, just careful, familiar handwriting that made her stomach go cold.  
  
  
  
Keeper Deshanna had written to her.  
  
About the Conclave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for reading.
> 
> When Josephine's sister talks about childhood stories, she gets cut off saying "she once told the Duke of-" so I was just like 'yea lemme get in on that action'
> 
> Exposition is literally my middle name, I said, lying through my fucking teeth. 
> 
> Stay safe, drink lots of tea, don't rip any holes in the sky while I'm gone.


	8. Melava’ena halani ma’suledin (Time will help you endure)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the Exalted Plains, the Dirth, towards Var'Bellanaris  
> As terrible news weighs on young shoulders  
> Making them stronger, making them colder  
> Turning her into a reflection of her name
> 
> But light is not easy to snuff when someone returns to spark the flame.  
> Two hands clasped, in spirit and in life.

People bowed to her, saw her as a deity, a person worth respecting; to be feared and adored equally.  
  
But now?  
  
Now she looked into the fire, its flames rising and falling as if following the ebb of her magic.  
  
Hollowed.  
  
Knees bent, sitting on the chair, one hand covering her mouth, the other grasping a rolled-up page.  
The fireplace reflected in her eyes; an illusion of an inferno dwelling in her stare.  
Grief, anger, sadness, confusion, bafflement.  
  
12 years of ex-communication, not a word.  
  
But the silence was broken like an arrow through a sheet of ice, swift and thorough, leaving many cracks in its wake.  
She kicks her legs out, stretching like a cat, heavy exhalation of breath moving with her muscles, mind shifting silently against the words she had read. **  
  
**_Fen’Harel,_

 _The Clan knows of your organization and its ties to the Conclave. Ellana was sent to look upon the peace talks. She has_ _neither_ _returned_ _n_ _or sent word after the explosion. Her silence is_ _an_ _answer_ _enough_ _._ _R_ _eturn her ring to us, so that we may_ _bury what remains._ _  
  
Keeper Deshanna __  
  
_She’s read it only once, clipped speech written on the parchment, a worded duplicate of the Keeper’s tone.  
  
There was a heavy silence only disrupted by the Ambassador shifting in her seat.  
She is next to the Inquisitor, chairs pulled close enough to touch side by side.  
The diplomat is the first to speak.  
  
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she confessed, more than a little ashamed, “They had written to you directly yet...I saw your forename and...” for once, the Lady was at a loss for words, “I am _very_ sorry.”  
  
The Herald’s face didn’t change as her eyes locked with the fire, but her tone was all too quiet, “No, no, I don’t mind.” she looked to the perturbed Antivan with eyes abated by grief, “for one, I would prefer not to have seen this at the War Table; Leliana gives me a hard enough time already” she doesn’t notice Josephine bristle at the words, “And secondly,” a smile but so very, very small, “I’m grateful to have someone to talk with about....this.”  
  
She raises her letter-clutched hand in emphasis.  
  
“I _should_ be angrier at the fact they’d only contact me when they want something” there’s a tired forcefulness to her tone as if pushing the word out instead of letting it fall, “but hearing about Ellana...is...”

The elf shakes her head roughly as if to clear her thoughts, “While the Keeper looked at me with indifference, and the Clan with hostility, Ellana was neither,” green eyes, reminiscing, failing to meet grey, “Ellana was the Keeper’s First, a studious type who kept to herself but was respected by the Clan nonetheless. She was serious and kind of stoic but a good person.”  
  
Josephine listened intently, a fireside tale woven by pain; like one of Leliana’s stories, always ending in sadness.  
  


* * *

  
_“DELLTASH! GET BACK HERE YOU DAMNED WOLF!” echoed_ _off into the forest.  
  
Small legs, sweating, bleeding, scared. The pain clawing up her thigh.  
  
She never stopped running, hair sticking to the back of her neck, feet scraped by the stones and twigs. _ _Horns catching on everything._ _  
  
The dog had bitten her calf, red wound gaping, blood leaving a trail for any to follow.  
She skidded, seeing a rocky hillside blocking her path and scrambled leftwards instead.  
  
She looked behind her, lungs aching, to see a _ _wake_ _of ice following her steps.  
Panic, panic, panic.  
She tried to outpace it, eyes burning.  
Was she crying or was it sweat?  
  
Elgar’nan, Mythal, Falon’Din, Andruil, _ _**anyone** _ _, please, please, please.  
  
She hops over a fallen tree, skidding down a small slope, then rolling forward without control. The wound stretches, flesh tearing, pain racking her breath.  
  
_ _Her legs go cold as she lies flat, chest heaving, eyes wide with fear.  
She couldn’t move, Mythal, she couldn’t _ _**move** _ _.  
Ice, creeping up slowly, coating her legs, digging sharp pins of cold into _ _the bite_ _as it w_ _inds_ _itself into the muscle.  
Up and up, looking to stop, to freeze, to solidify, to kill.  
  
She was going to die.  
And maybe, she deserved it.  
  
She had killed the dog when it lashed out at her, her leg first, then _ _maybe_ _her ear.  
  
A hand outstretched, a scream on her tongue, a spark so potent, it rendered the _ _hound_ _dead on impact.  
  
She vomited on the dusty ground, bile and _ _dirt_ _, as its face held; contorted in pure rage, muscles frozen like a_ _sickening mask_ _.  
  
She didn’t mean to kill him.  
She just wanted to pet him, she didn’t know he would...  
  
Taleth, came running, bow _ _drawn,_ _only to see the aftermath; the wolf, the damn wolf had killed his dog.  
_ _He released the arrow, only for it to miss as she had rolled quickly away, light and quick, adrenaline pushing her steps.  
  
_ _She knew he wouldn’t see reason; no one wanted to.  
Running, running, running, chased by ice, till it held her in its grasp.  
  
She was going to die; eyes filling with tears, only to crystallize on her face as they fell.  
  
A flash.  
  
_ _T_ _hen breath, filling her body, warming her soul, water pooling around her, cleansing her wound.  
  
She _ _brings her head to the side and_ _cough_ _s_ _, throat released from frost, lungs clearing of cold. Sitting up, she look_ _s_ _around and s_ _ees_ _no one but hear_ _s_ _something.  
  
Tapping, wood meeting ground, three legs moving forward.  
  
“_ _I am astounded it manifested so early,_ _”_ _said the voice as it grew closer, “I thought you to be ordinary, but Dirthamen shows us again, that the Gift is a secret which comes as a surprise.”  
  
Fen’Harel looks towards the sound but says nothing, fear still broiling in her body.  
  
“Let me look at you,” the voice says, growing closer.  
  
From the shadow of a tree, comes Ellana Lavellan, eyes mysterious and tranquil_ _._ _  
  
Harel’s leg twitches, sending a spike of pain up her _ _right side_ _, tears beginning to stream down again.  
  
Ellana kneels to her, hands calloused and careful, taking up the leg with care.  
  
“It is deep,” she remarks, as her hands glow with mana, “but you will live, Dread Wolf.”, she moves a hand up to brush the hair from the young elf’s _ _ear_ _, searching, “The dogs have been trained to attack you, Da’len, to catch you by the ear._ _You are lucky this_ _one did not_ _accomplish_ _his goal.”  
  
_ _Harel still shook, even as the calming tendrils of magic soothed the pain and mended her broken flesh. She was not accustomed to anyone from the Clan being so non-threateningly close.  
  
“You have the Gift but it has come upon you suddenly, in your time of need. _ _Y_ _ou lack the control to harness it.” the older elf, raises a hand to pluck a leaf skewered to the child’s horns, “As a spellcaster, to forgo balance is to condemn oneself to possession and death. See how the ice took chase, how it attempted to take your life?”  
  
Her wound closes, with a gentle pat of a rough palm against the new skin. The young Qunari’s eyes meet the older elf’s; _ _closer, easier to see_ _.  
They’re green.  
  
“Come, we will go to the Keeper together and inform her of the truth.” she holds out her hand but Harel is overly cautious.  
  
“I don’t trust you,” she says pointedly, even after Ellana has _ _healed her, “_ _You helped me because you want something._ _Hahren says that Fen’Harel gives favours but I don’t do that so you should leave.”  
  
Ellana closes her eyes briefly and sighs, removing her hands from the child, standing up in a fluid motion.  
  
“Dread Wolf,” she says with a mock plea, “I beseech you to come with me to the Keeper so that we may speak more of your Gift,” _ _narrowed eyes but not in malice, “_ _but if you believe yourself able to get past the angry Clansfolk without me, then I bid you the best of luck.”  
  
Ah, the _ _C_ _lan. They’_ _ve_ _probably g_ _otten_ _Taleth’s version of the story by n_ _ow._ _  
Not good.  
  
“Wait!” the wolf scrambl_ _es_ _to stand up, “I-” she tries to find words, small hands clenching and unclenching, “I’ll come.”  
  
Ellana holds the staff _ _loosely_ _, reclaimed from the ground and reaches her hand out to the child.  
  
“Come, before they send the hunters _ _t_ _o invoke_ _Vir Banal’ras.” an oddly quiet, peaceful tone.  
  
Her hand wraps into the palm, fingers grasping as if confused by the mere fact she’s holding on to someone.  
  
Confused that she holds a palm and not a fist.  
  
They walk together, following the trail of blood back to the camp.  
  
_

* * *

There is a hush over the room as Harel finishes. Her tale so closely mimicking the visions Solas retells, the description, the anguish in her timbre, the pacing.  
She treats her life as a story, to make it more palatable, to make it less sad.  
  
But that just makes it more depressing.  
  
“I plan on ignoring the Keeper entirely,” Harel starts, voice rough “The ring is precious Sylvanwood but I refuse to have it wasting under a sapling to be forgotten after they’ve moved.” her hand makes the parchment crinkle under the force, “I’ll bury it in Var’Bellanaris, in the Dirthavaren.”  
  
She closes her eyes as if the grief has weighed her eyelids down, “She deserves no less than that.”  
  
They are back to silence as Harel lays an arm across the chair’s armrest, gently bumping together with the Ambassador’s.  
  
“Do you wish me to notify them, Harel,” comes a whisper, careful words so as not to offend, “of your choice.”  
  
There is no answer, a head tilted to look at the flames.  
A tawny hand covers the larger grey one, filling the spaces between the fingers and holding tight.  
A palm, instead of a fist.  
  
A green spark fizzles and jumps upon their joined hands, sharing, unloading, showing. An accidental release, like a pot lid lifting and spilling steam, a tethering of emotions, of thoughts and feelings. Josephine realizes she’s crying before she can stop it.  
  
She feels choked by nausea, grief, rage and turns reddened, tear-filled eyes to the Inquisitor who just continues looking to the flames, like a statue, frozen.  
  
Is this what she feels?  
  
A torrent of _things_ sweeping past her mind, overwhelmed, the sound of her mantra, nowhere to be felt.  
  
All she could hear was a feeling, the thrumming, throbbing, suffocating weight of a word.  
  
Suledin.  
  
And a tender emotion, buried under the hurt that howled for her to hold it tightly in her hands; to hear the beating of a heart and form the words on her lips.  
  
But the beautiful feeling melts away, retreating under the pain, as if ashamed.  
  
Her vision is blurring, she can’t see through the tears but a cloth, cotton, soft, is dabbing at her eyes before she can realize.  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” says Harel, turning her body towards the Ambassador, handkerchief pressing softly against her skin, “Magic is fluid. It takes any form you wish, as well as anything you don't. That’s why control is so important...”  
  
This was different from the plucky little thing who sat sobbing on a bridge months ago.  
Different from the eyes of a child staring up at the Breach.  
Something had changed in the Qunari Elf, unseen, yet conspicuous.  
It pained her.  
  
“I assure you,” Josephine is silently appalled at her own lack of control, “you are the last person who needs to apologize.”  
  
The mage clucks her tongue, words coming easily, “Again, always so formal, even when you’re drowning in tears.” a smile is back, even though it’s tired with sorrow, “I think it’s best I write them back, I don’t want you getting caught up in my woeful, tragic life.”  
  
Humour.  
  
Harel leans her head back against the cushions, sighing.  
How much more was the world going to take from her?  
  
She reminds herself, with every breath, that she’s there and becomes aware of the hand still clutching against hers.  
  
A sound of sniffling, a readjusting of the mask.  
  
Her palm is so very, very soft against the back of her hand and she tries to not draw attention to it.  
The hand squeezes.  
Well, someone’s drawing attention to it.  
  
“I must confess a mite of confusion,” the Antivan begins after stemming her tears, “Please, take no offence when I say this, but why are you not crying? Surely, from what I...felt, you are at liberty to express yourself.” Grey eyes, circled gently by gold.  
  
“I don’t know,” the Inquisitor says, face blank as she stares into the flames, “maybe I’ve finally matured from that sniffling brat on Haven’s bridge.” she lifts the fastened hands to stand on the armrest, balancing the weight on her elbow.  
  
“So would you say,” the Ambassador says, thumb running along the hand, reddened eyes dancing with mischief “that I am now the sniffling brat?”  
  
A laugh, short and distant, fleeting but here.  
  
“My Lady, you cry like a woman befitting of your station. Regally,” the smile is wider, “which is not the case for some of those spoon-fed nobles I’ve seen.”  
  
The Antivan makes an amused noise, entertained yet only a touch relieved at the banter.  
The Qunari can feel the small joy swell in her chest and Mythal, the pain felt less when the Lady was happy.  
The hollow felt less there.  
Everything felt more.  
Good.  
  
The Inquisitor sits up and leans forward to toss the missive into the flames. Josephine doesn’t comment on the action but she could swear, as the fire ate away the parchment, that she spied a wolf’s face, staring back at her.  
  


* * *

  
They are at the Exalted Plains, a place she has yet to explore thoroughly.  
  
The Dirthavaren.  
  
Solas and Cole walk at her side, two tasks weighing on them both.  
  
A Spirit of Wisdom had called to him for help and Harel only too quickly agreed.  
  
Wisdom was rare, but most of all, it was wholly peaceful; the thought alone of someone hearing its screams echo across the Fade made her feel ill.  
  
But fears became reality, as the Spirit was rendered a Demon.  
Circled by crystals that made her head hurt, they were approached by _vashedan-basra_ mages who quarrelled and recoiled at the _evil_ they had done.  
An evil they had no idea they were summoning.  
  
And the sheer ignorance made her so much angrier.  
  
They had dispatched the binding stones quickly though both she and Cole found it hard to stay near the newly formed Demon.  
It’s cacophonous, barbed existence had agitated them both to the core.  
  
But they were indeed successful.  
  
The Spirit became whole again, but it was nearing its end, too strained and eroded to pass through the Veil as themself.  
It spoke in Elvhen, it spoke of freedom and soon, it will be.  
Truly.  
Tears bubbled in the Inquisitor's eyes when she heard a memory recalled in reality.  
Now you must endure.  
Suledin.  
  
And then it was gone, fallen to the dust, its energy to reform as something new.  
  
Solas was enraged, vitriolic, hateful.  
  
And more than furious at the idiot mages.  
He wanted their blood, he wanted them dead.  
  
Guilt crawled in her skull; she too wanted their blood thick on her tongue despite believing in peace.  
  
She closed her eyes to the flash of mana, she tried to wash away the last screams.  
Like a damn hypocrite.  
  
Cole asked if she wanted to forget and she was indeed tempted, but no.  
  
No, it was better to remember.  
  
A reminder as to why Spirits must be protected from the foolish and cowardly.  
  
The Dreamer tried to storm away, blue fire burning bright in his eyes, but Harel catches him by his arm.  
  
“We are not done here.” it’s more of an order than a plea.  
  
Solas vexes instantaneously, disapproval blatant in his face. He wants to be alone but she will not allow it, she will not let him fester.  
  
She will attempt to give him peace, as he often did for her.  
  
It is a walk which no memories adhered to; quick in pace and cold in feeling.  
Cole didn’t like it, but both parties tried to calm themselves, if not for their peace of mind, then for Compassion.  
She ambles along the river bank till they reach the Dalish camp; a Clan to which she barely remembers. The Halla herder notices them approaching, seeing the bald elf first, then the taller horned-  
  
“Fen’Harel!” he says loud enough for the Keeper to hear, surprise in his tone, “Aneth ara, Sister! I am pleased to see Clan Lavellan did not eat you alive!”  
  
She would chuckle if her mood wasn’t so sour, “Ma nuvenin, Lethallin, I’m sorry if I don’t look pleased to see you, I come solely for Var’Bellanaris.”  
  
Mourning replaces his smile as he nods, guiding her towards the Keeper, “Oh, of course. Ir abelas, Da’len.”  
  
The Keeper meets them halfway stepping towards Cole as the boy steps back; the Keeper apparently can’t see him.  
  
It might be better that way, considering she was bringing a shem into sacred Elvhen grounds.  
  
“Fen’Harel,” the Keeper says, examining her, “You have grown much since the Arlathvhen,” there is no hatred in his words, he speaks a name instead of a curse, “What brings your Inquisition to the Dirth, Da’len.”  
  
The Herald reminds herself to breathe before she speaks, “Ellana of Clan Lavellan has passed. I’ve come to bury what remains in Var’Bellanaris.”  
  
The words are more stinging and blunt than she expected; were she not so bereaved, disrespecting the Keeper would have upset her.  
  
“Ah,” Keeper Hawen replies, the shock growing as he recalls the mysterious eyes of Lavellan’s First, “A true shame. She did the People proud with her ability; nearly rivalling that of Clan Sabrae’s exiled.” Merrill, the name felt like a faraway memory, “You do Ellana a great justice by letting her dream in the sacred tombs. Ir abelas.”  
  
He sees the pain in her eyes; a vacant stare.  
  
“Go, lay her soul to rest,” he calls for the Clan Gatherer to come, “Nissa will help us prepare a small service for her. Dareth shiral, Da’len.”  
  
Harel feels her hands shaking but Cole grabs them, “She holds my hands in hers, I am older, stronger, I am willing to leave like an echo shouting forward but still I tremble, a new path, a new life. Nononono, Ellana come with me-Melava’ena halani ma’suledin, we will meet again. Time will dull your pain. A ring placed in my palm, I hold it close enough to hurt” he stares into her soul, “Endure. Endure, Da’len.”  
  
She nods her head, unspeaking but he knows what she knows.  
  
Thank you.  
I am in control.  
  
They begin their trek to the graveyard, quiet save for the clopping of Halla, who bray softly, trailing behind the Dread Wolf, crying in her stead. One walks with them, closely following, butting its head against Cole’s leg before scampering off into the world.  
  
“They’re so bright but so sad. You pull at them and they can’t help but pull back,” he seems surprised, “They can feel your love, like an old perfume in the wind..”  
  
“I used to sneak into the Halla pens as a child,” Harel drawled, “and the Herder wasn’t very keen of me befriending his stock.”  
  
“Wolf, wolf, run from here, if you come back, we’ll take your ear,” Cole rhymes, then his face falls, “Those children were mean, they deserved the Halla dung you threw at them.”  
  
Finally, a snort of laughter from the elf, she nods, remembering.  
Her pain lessened in the moment.  
A laugh, like a blanket over the fire, which makes Cole smile.  
  
Solas is silent the entire way to the burial grounds, brooding, angry, distant. He wants to lay his head down and dream but she won’t let him.  
He may feel her cruel, childish, incompetent, for her unwillingness to let him go, to force him to see this journey through, but she didn’t pay any mind.  
She needed him here for a good reason.  
  
They came upon the cemetery, an oasis of verdant blessings, like a piece of the Emerald Graves, a cutting taken, made to flourish as a reminder that-  
  
“We are the last Elvhen, never again shall we submit.” comes the scarecrow boy, tugging on her strings again.  
  
She walks forward, looking amongst the dusty mounds where dead elves lay sleeping forever. Sunlight, warm against her skin as she tries to find a suitable spot.  
  
“Here,” says Cole, who appears near the back of the area, crouching on top of a mound, hat bent down as if pointing.  
  
They walk in tandem, Harel and Solas, towards the space and close the distance between the wood and stone.  
She is kneeling before the empty grave.  
She pulls the ring from her pouch and places it into the open tomb, carvings depicting the Dread Wolf’s betrayal on its sanded width, a reminder of who to protect the clan from.  
  
How ironic.  
  
She pulls her glove off, hands skating over a ringed finger before removing the jewellery and placing it in the grave.  
  
“It was enchanted to bring a heightened state of awareness; like intelligence.” Harel says to the grave, eyes never removed from the two rings, “I would like to believe it as a form of wisdom imparted.” she turns to him, tears streaming down her face, eyes red, lips trembling, voice broken “I hope you do as well.”  
  
He turns his head away, anger softening as he realizes why she dragged him all this way.  
  
She wished to commend his friend.  
Just as she commended hers.  
  
“In uthenara, na revas.” comes Cole softly from above, an angel dressed in black patches.  
  
They are silent for a while, the world is quiet. The wind is still, the birds make little noise.  
  
A punctuating peace as the Dirth accepts two more into its arms.  
  


* * *

  
  
Only one returns to Skyhold. Solas needed time away and Cole.  
Cole was self-explanatory.  
  
It’s late in the night, a majority of the Keep’s residents are tucked away in bed but she hopes with a selfish heart, that one remains awake despite the hour.  
  
Legs aching, eyes tired, heart empty.  
White hair, greyish from the dust of the outdoors.  
  
And then her breath is caught, like a rabbit in a bear’s jaws.  
  
Josephine.  
  
She’s sitting at one of the common tables, scrawling away at her notepad.  
Harel focuses her eyes, not scrawling. Long soft lines, swiping of the wrist, thumb coming up to smudge; to make shadows.  
  
Teth a, she was drawing!  
  
The Inquisitor tries to soften her steps as she approaches from behind, Herah’s voice in her ears _you’re smaller than me yet you move like a fucking Bronto with a beehive up its ass.  
  
_Gently, one foot in front of the other, avoid clapping the heels, balls of the foot pivoting slightly.  
  
Peering over a ruffled shoulder she sees talent and dedication.  
But most importantly, passion.  
A passion for something she likes to do.  
  
So the Lady was Antivan after all.  
  
It was the Inquisitor and the Haven Druffalo.  
A remarkable likeness.  
She didn’t realize Josephine would willingly venture into those frosty sidepaths just to see her hug a cow.  
  
Put away your ego, Harel, it could just be an unreferenced drawing.  
  
In the picture, she had one hand up to scratch the Druffalo’s ears, the beast leaning into her touch while others grazed the snow behind her. A mountainside as her background and trees as the fore; as if looking in secretly.  
  
A braid flung over her shoulder, eyes closed, grin wide, a hand deep in her pocket as if _Fenhedis_ she indeed watched her!  
The hand in her pocket digging for treats! How else could she know!  
Then again, she was Leliana’s confidante.  
Spies everywhere.  
  
“I’m glad to see you have a hobby other than addressing pompous idiots,” Harel spoke over her the golden shoulder.  
  
A comical display of flipping parchments as charcoal went rolling off and under the table; trying to smooth hair, face flustered and red with embarrassment.  
  
“You are far more stealthy than you let on,” The Ambassador said after catching herself, her throat clearing, then the gentle worrying of her lip, “How are you faring?”  
  
“Better than when I was last here,” the Inquisitor said, slipping into a seat next to Josephine, “I had a lot of time to think on the journey back.” her eyes are honest, a minor amount of acceptance, “but I think,” she laughs turning her gaze to the Ambassador, “I will be fine.”  
  
The words garner a relieved smile from the woman as she places a hand on the elf’s shoulder, “You will be fine,” she mirrors the mantra they’ve so willingly adopted, “ _Possa riposare in pace._ May she rest in peace.”  
  
Harel leans into the touch, eyes closed, the silence of Skyhold in the night is like no else.  
  
“Antivan is such a pretty language.” Harel sighs, face contemplative.  
  
“I would say the same regarding Elven.” the diplomat leans her head on the elf’s shoulder, ignoring the subtle chill held in the leather coat, “I admit, I know very little about your people which is more than a little reprehensible considering my diplomatic duties.”  
  
There is a pause as Harel considers her words.  
Josephine gives her time.  
  
“Are you familiar with any Dalish songs?” the Inquisitor twists her head to speak into the black hair.  
  
“Were you not listening when I was speaking, Harel,” Josephine japes, “I know next to nothing.”  
  
The Qunari elf snorts faintly, amused by the subtle audacity.  
  
“Would you like to hear one?” the tone is almost too soft, nearly missed.  
  
The Antivan closes her eyes and smiles, settling further into the Herald’s shoulder, “I would love to.”  
  
  
  
It weaves softly through Skyhold, a mourning song that spoke of loss and dreams; freedom from pain. Wafting up through the large hall, echoing, amplifying, enchanting.  
Elven kitchen hands stop their work as they’re reminded of a language they heard from their parents or spoke to their child.  
Cole sits in the seat Solas has left empty as he takes in the song, pleased at the untangled hurt; overjoyed that the Wolf found themself tenderly ensnared by an Admiral who’d never sail ships of her own.  
  
She was kneeling by the altar when the words came spiralling through the tower.  
  
Peace washed over Leliana.  
  
Nostalgia and love during a truly horrible time.  
  
It made her bend her head further and remember a Ferelden campfire, a Dalish rogue who clapped at the end of her song much to the ire of Morrigan.  
  
The Qunari would have made a talented minstrel.  
  
Though she may not trust her intent, the Mistress appreciated the reprieve more than the Inquisitor will ever know.  
  
_hahren na melana sahlin  
emma ir abelas  
souver'inan isala hamin  
vhenan him dor'felas  
in uthenara __na revas  
  
vir sulahn'nehn  
vir dirthera  
vir samahl la numin  
vir lath sa'vunin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.  
> Thanks for reading.  
> There's a story Merrill tells in DAII about the Dalish hunters saying "if you see the dread wolf, catch him by the ear' or something  
> Its good to get the jitters out, even if the game is like what, years and years old now. 
> 
> Either way, translations:  
> Delltash- curse word  
> Vir Banal’ras- the "Way of Shadow." Dalish hunters assume it when a debt of blood must be repaid.  
> Suledin- Endure  
> Vashedan-basra- Foreigner trash or crappy humans/non-qunari  
> Arlathvhen- Meeting of the Dalish clans that occurs every ten years. Means "for love of the people  
> Melava’ena halani ma’suledin- Time will help you endure (I stuck some words together; research was done ye ye)  
> In uthenara, na revas- in waking sleep is freedom  
> Teth a- A Qunari exclamation  
> Fenhedis- a Dalish swear word  
> Possa riposare in pace- May she rest in peace
> 
> I love Leliana's song
> 
> See you later


	9. You will not be fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobility is complicated.  
> Contracts are complicated.  
> Feelings are complicated.
> 
> The Herald pulls at her invisible leash, feeling more like a Demon than a person.  
> Baying for blood when the Lady is threatened.
> 
> She comes to terms with everything as she accepts the Spymistress' offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me and dialogue, we don't get along, sometimes it fights me, sometimes I see the conversations so clearly that I'm like what the fuck how did you get in my house, I'm calling the police 911 whats your emergency Chris is that a weed.

When Harel came bouncing through Skyhold’s halls and ricocheting into the Ambassador’s office, she was expecting a seated woman, smiling, sighing at the eccentric display, maybe even caught off-guard and flushed with surprise.  
  
Instead, she was worried, pacing, fretting, fingers laced and expression tight with concern.  
  
She had tried to calm the woman who just kept buzzing around.  
Josephine kept opening her mouth as if to speak but nothing came past her lips other than a heavy breath.  
Hesitant.  
Weighing the circumstances, the possibilities, the _everything_.  
Embarrassment, no.... _shame..._ definitely shame, clear on her face.  
  
Then, the yarn unravelled; the whole story of her somewhat fallen fortune.

Murdered couriers, family status, the **worry** for her siblings, their holdings, their legacy.  
  
“Oh,” Harel said far too quickly, “I think my big ears heard some of the pratty nobles in Val Royeaux talking about that. Something something elder Montilyet something.”  
  
She had heard far more than just the joking accounts she spoke but to recall the gossip in its entirety seemed to be in poor taste.

  
The Lady seemed upset enough already; she dare not push.  
  
Alas, the same effect she feared, was achieved.  
  
To say Josephine looked mortified at the Inquisitor's confession would be an understatement.  
  
“Hey, hey I see that look,” arms going up in a mollifying stance, “I didn’t mean that in a bad way, I’m just telling you since you looked so....uh....well...embarrassed to talk about it.” nervous prattling thick in her tone, “and I thought if _you knew_ that _I knew,_ you wouldn’t feel too bad but I mean, of course, you’d feel bad...AGH **VASHEDAN**!”  
  
Harel claps her hands over her face, “I thought I stopped this rambling thing. AGH, I’m getting off-topic.” she regains herself, throat clearing before speaking, “What would you like me to do?”  
  
But the words hadn’t hit their mark, instead, they just flew away, sloshing against the walls of the office and disappearing entirely as if never spoken, never heard.  
  
The Ambassador was lost in thought, arms crossed, pacing the interior of her mind.  
  
Harel recognized it, like the memory of a memory laid thin over her eyes.  
Though the Lady possessed no Fade-given abilities, it’s all to clear to see the similarities.  
  
She’s drowning.  
Drowning in her mind, getting overwhelmed and swallowed.  
Like herself.  
Like Cole.  
  
The Inquisitor steps forward quickly and grabs a slender hand, squeezing, anchoring, reminding her of a time on Haven’s bridge when she needed someone and they came. Now Harel will be the anchor lest their diplomat floats away; caught in a current of uneasiness.  
  
Sharp eyes, lined with kohl, snap back to her with a fluttering of eyelashes as if she’d been asleep.  
  
“Everything will be fine.” came the mage, punctuating the last word with a squeeze of her hand.  
  


A short laugh, far too stressed to be considered jovial, “Thank you..” she takes a deep breath before continuing, head slowly shaking, “You know exactly what to say.”  
  
Now it’s Harel’s turn to laugh, something brighter, sparkier, “I don’t particularly agree,” she grins widely, “If I recall, it was you who coined that phrase. I’m simply paying tribute to a fine quote.”  
  
They are settled, easier, still rough around the edges with tension but more able to plan.  
  
Harel casts a look of tenderness to the delicate hand as thoughts begin to swirl in her head, of elevation, of status, of nobility.  
  
And all at once, she finally sees the wall between them, paved and bricked by way of social standing and blood. She hears the Val Royeaux nobles in her ears, hissing acid into her mind. The very gossip she heard could become so much worse.  
  
_A_ _horned_ _elf_ _barbarian_ _and a human noblewoman?_ _  
  
_A cold chill swept through her body.  
No.  
She had dealt with the confused, gawking, unaccepting looks all her life.  
To have them directed Josephine?  
She seemed to have enough rumours about her already.  
  
She didn’t realize how much the thought would sting.  
The thought of being pushed away without being pushed, like the wind in the Frostbacks, shoving her back after Haven’s destruction but so much colder.  
  
She releases the Lady, all too aware that hands tarnished by blood, dirt and Druffalo fur have no place touching gold.  
  


* * *

  
“Pardon my Orlesian, but **what the fuck**?!” **  
**  
The Inquisitor’s tongue still took some getting used to. The stories of the capricious Qunari were spread far and wide now; often recounted as _Dalish blood_ _and curving horns,_ _from her tongue are curses born_ _._  
  
The white-haired Qunari elf sat next to Josephine as green eyes tried to peer behind the mask of ‘Comte Boisvert’.  
If the comment had caught him unawares, he certainly didn’t show it.  
  
They had come to Val Royeaux to meet the man who knew more about the embargo on the Montilyet’s trading status; a man who turned out to be a posh assassin.  
  
“Inquisitor,” the assassin says as he swirls wine around a goblet, “this is simply a formality, I have no intention of taking Lady Montilyet’s life...today.”  
  
“OH!” the elf says with indignant laughter in place, “OH THAT’S JUST GREAT!” she slaps a hand down on the table with each word, “You won’t kill her right now LIKE THAT MAKES IT ANY **FUCKING** BETTER! YEAH THANKS!”  
  
A gentle clearing of the throat next to her, disapproving eyes in her direction.  
She couldn't see it but she could feel it.  
Somehow, that made it worse.  
Harel purses her lips and releases a deep breath, trying to behave more professionally.  
  
“I thank you for your candour, Ser,” Josephine says with a worried expression; the cogs in her head-turning, always turning.  
  
Harel has not calmed down since the assassin unveiled himself; her eyes too busy scanning everywhere in case a hidden knife or archer lay waiting.  
  
“My Lady, I pray we never meet again.” the hired killer replies as he makes motions to leave, his courteous threat delivered successfully.  
  
The _gall._  
  
Unable to let the poncy bastard just **leave** , Harel jolts up, immediately blocking his path, standing tall and straight to try and bring the Qunari out of her.  
  
Commanding, bestial, terrifying.  
You want an Oxman?  
Here.  
Here is your **fucking Oxman**.  
  
“Looking to just waltz off into the day, _Ser_?” her tone acrid, eyes looking down at the human, “Because I have half a mind to break-”  
  
“Inquisitor!”  
  
The Qunari hears the sweet voice laced with a reprimand and remembers herself like a leash pulling back.  
Josephine, so abhorrent of bloodshed would even let a trained killer walk past her simply because of _niceties_.  
  
_Kost  
  
_The word is an echo in her mind, reminding her, telling her, pleading with her that she can put her sword down.  
That the Peacekeeper was so lovely because she cared so much about life. _  
_ She is hesitant to back down and makes slow steps to lessen her stature. Distance has done little to dull her eyes which still flash with wild anger.

The Lady didn’t have to explicitly tell her.  
She knew that if she dare sparked one iota of lightning, the Ambassador would ensure a swift and brutal tongue-lashing; it was _her_ fight, not Harel’s.  
And her fights never involved bloodshed.  
No fucking bloodshed.

  
Fucking common _fucking_ courtesy even for _fucking assassins who want to take_ _her_ _fucking life._  
  
There is a stronger flare to the green eyes, wisps of magic made to frighten.  
No bloodshed, just _intimidation_.  
  
“Get the fuck out.” was all the Herald could grind out, “and pray that _I_ don’t catch you skulking about Skyhold,” her body leans forward slightly, aggression pouring off her skin, “because I am not as lenient as the good Lady.”  
  
He bows his head graciously before turning his head to Josephine, “You possess a fine guard dog indeed, Lady Montilyet.”  
  
The elf’s nostrils flare at the provocation but the leash is still held taut.  
She could feel the smoke curl off her body, the heating of her armour, the fire that threatened to burst from her hands.  
  
She will not kill the man.  
She will not sully the ground with his blood.  
She will be peaceful.  
If not for common decency, then for Josephine.  
  
_Kost_  
  
The ‘Comte’ bows again, then takes his leave, keeping a wide berth lest the Inquisitor combusts.  
Apparently, her spontaneous flares and blizzards have also become the talk of taverns as well.  
  
Her eyes never leave the man as he disappears behind the door.  
  
She hears the scraping of a chair, the soft tap of shoes approaching but there’s a tension in her gait.  
  
“Inquisitor, I am so sorry for bringing you into this mess,” she could hear the voice growing closer, “And I am especially sorry about his remarks; a thoroughly shameful display by the House of Repose.”  
  
But the Qunari felt her teeth gnashing far after the Comte’s departure.  
  
Sometimes her foul-mouth got the better of her.  
She could be mercurial, precocious even a little flirtatious if Dorian was anything to go by, but never had she felt like a chained starving wolf lunging for meat.  
  
Such a vicious desire that went past killing.  
She wanted to inflict pain to those who dare threaten the Ambassador so blatantly.  
  
But she was held in her place by a staunch pacifist.

Peace nearly turned to rage; control so easily gained and lost.  
  
It felt wrong to kill; against her nature almost, but when the sweet taste of blood would fill her mouth she remained quiet as if sated.  
  
Like a Demon drinking in the world’s pleasures.  
  
Gulping down the anger, Harel turns to Josephine with a very burdened expression.  
There are no words between them at first but then the Ambassador reached for her hand and holds the larger grey palm in hers.  
  
_What would people say?  
  
_The elf tensed, fingers curling slightly as if to flinch and lovely, sweet Josie, who knew everything about body language, quickly released the hand.  
  
Suddenly both women felt awkward as if overstepping their boundaries.  
  
A flush to both faces, painting over both a lightly freckled nose bridge and over grey cheeks.  
  
Dancing a familiar dance but then the moves change mid-step.  
  
A change of topic.  
Quickly.  
  
And now the dance comes to a grinding halt.  
  
Instead of assuaging, Harel hears words that make her clench her fist, words that for once hold little meaning in the grand scope of a possible death.  
  
“I will be fine.” comes an accented whisper.  
  
Green eyes turn to look at the Ambassador, for once, feeling no peace, only fear, paranoia, anguish.  
  
_You will not be fine  
They want you dead  
__And I_ _ **will not allow it  
**__  
_

* * *

_  
_ The ravens were tricky creatures, especially that damn Baron Plucky. It appears Leliana trained that one to nip at the Inquisitor whenever she dared to show her face in the Rookery.  
  
And tonight, she came with as much confidence as she could.  
  
The wood creaks under her steps as she moves quickly to the ring of posts; bracing a hand to the railing.  
She hated being so up high, feeling the old flooring creak as if it would give out any second.  
Deep breaths.  
  
The Spymistress was nowhere to be found; not even by her precious little altar or her _precious little bird_. She cast a mean look to the Raven who stared back as if daring her to come closer.  
  
“Stop harassing my bird.” came a voice from behind.  
  
Harel held her muscles still, trying her best not to show how unprepared she was for the comment.  
  


“You should tell your bird to stop being such a bastard then.” the Herald muttered, turning herself to face the hidden Orlesian.  
  
As if called, the same damn bird fluttered overhead, passing just close enough to Harel to brush talons over her hair; a threat if she ever felt one.  
  
The snappy raven then settled on Leliana’s shoulder, cawing with his wings stretched out.  
  
Yes, he was definitely threatening her.  
  
“Instead of annoying my bird, I suggest you look into the House of Repose before they do away with Josephine,” there is a clipped nature to the way the Mistress speaks.  
  
She recognized the blunt tone as it paralleled her own in Val Royeaux.  
Maybe Harel wasn’t the only one pulling the pacifist’s leash.  
  
“Oh Leliana,” the Qunari says mockingly with both hands braced on the bannister, “I would not dare interrupt your scheming to make me have an ‘accidental’ death unless I came with a legitimate request.”  
  
The Spymaster allows her to continue, Baron Plucky silent for once.  
  
“I want that contract destroyed.” the Inquisitor says, belly knotting in guilt, “Our Ambassador has that painful integrity you needed in the Inquisition but she’s trying to bureaucracy or diplomacy or _whatever_ her way through. At the rate she’s going...” she casts her gaze down, words oddly heavy and dying on her tongue.  
  
She was going to quip, say _we’ll be planning her funeral before the documents arrive_ but the idea of speaking that made her go cold and nauseous. _  
_  
She pictured a flash of silver, a cut across Josephine’s throat, blood spilling, breath gasping, skin paling; holding her tightly in her arms, sobbing into bloodied silk as death comes to snuff out the gold in her eyes.  
  
Like an arm jutting from red lyrium.  
  
Leliana sees the emotions flash across the Qunari’s face and for once, is sympathetic.  
  
“Did you know,” the Spymistress was next to her, Mythal, she was as fast as Cole, “that she still has night terrors of Haven.”  
  
Harel clenched her teeth as she brought a hand up to massage her head.  
  


“You found her in Haven and I suppose,” the Spymistress continues hesitantly, “for that owe you my thanks.” her head is turned away, hood covering her face, “If you hadn’t pulled her from the bridge, then she would have only existed here.”  
  
Leliana pulls a small scroll from her pocket; the names of those that were lost in Haven.  
  
“and now we risk losing her again.” Harel continued off Leliana’s words.  
  
It’s the first time they’ve settled into anything close to a complacent silence; normally at the War Table, the quiet is bordered by the scratching of a quill, the shuffling of armour or the glaring of an Orlesian.  
  
Harel never knew a stare to make noise until she met the Mistress.  
  
But now, they were both on the same side, the threat of losing Josephine pulling the archer and the mage together; a will to see the problem resolved swiftly as their converging point. Harel looked to the sky through the hole in the Rookery, birds drifting in and out.  
  
Somehow, looking at the stars rolling past felt less scary.  
  
“How bad are the terrors?” the elf begins, “How often?”  
  
The Mistress sighs, hands wringing gently, “To both? Very. She has never seen such intense violence before.”a sigh, “Many good people, even children, met a terrible end. And she witnessed it all” Baron Plucky rubs his head against his owner’s hood as if sensing the restlessness, before preening himself.  
  
“I recall one night she came running up here in just her nightclothes, panting and harried; the way she looked at me, I thought someone was attempting to kill her,” Leliana puts her chin in her palm, leaning over the bannister, “Can you believe she was just sleepwalking? The terrors roused her from bed without even waking her. She still has no memory of the event.”  
  
“I’m glad she feels safe with you, even when she’s out of her mind with Asala-Taar.” Harel added, “I didn’t know if it was still there, she hides it well.”  
  
“Asala-Taar?” the bard is confused, “and of course she hides it well, she is a master of the Game.”  
  
There is a proud quavering to her voice at the mention of their Ambassador’s skill and Harel can’t help but smile.  
  
But the smile is quick to fade under the circumstances they speak.  
  
“Soul sickness, it’s battle trauma the Qunari in Seheron get. Bull tells me he had to be re-educated after his bout with it. Some just....go crazy and die.” the elf is quick to pick her voice back up, “but Josephine hasn’t gone through Seheron. If she has Asala-Taar, then it’s a minor case. Doesn’t make it less serious though.”  
  
“And is there a cure? Other than Qunari re-education?” the Mistress is hopeful but it is hidden well in her tone.  
  
Things can never be so simple.

  
“No...” Harel speaks, her eyes focused on a raven across the room, “Nothing but time and reassurance I suppose.”  
  
“And more locks on her door to prevent her nightly escapades.” Leliana remarks.  
  
An amused breath escapes the Qunari.  
  
The silence settles yet again, both content to let it linger considering their prior hostilities. Blue eyes focus on the elf as she begins again.  
  
“She will detest this route,” a soft, almost whispered tone, “and she will not be quick to forget how you and I threw knives at the problem.”  
  
A fist curls around the bannister as Harel looks straight ahead, face sullen, “So long as the blood spilt is not hers,” green eyes look back to Leliana, honesty clear in the expression, “I don’t give a fuck.”  
  
Leliana replies with a noise of approval then is presented with a thought.  
The Inquisitor is right next to her, she may as well address some other concerns on her mind.  
  
The Spymistress wastes no time to roughly grasp the scruff of Harel’s coat, bending her forward enough to put the fear of the Maker in her.  
Her fear of heights was no secret to her and thankfully, at this hour of the night, their only witness was Solas who knew well and good that this was none of his business.  
  
“LELIANA WHAT THE **FUCK**!!!” Harel screamed as her arms flailed wildly outwards, then inwards, trying to find purchase on anything.  
  
“Our little heart to heart is over; it is time to return to reality, non?” All sweetness as if she wasn’t holding someone over a fatal drop.  
  
Ah, maybe the accidental death would happen today.  
  
“SOLAS!!!!” the Qunari cried into the tower, “SOLAS HELP!!! I’M BEING KILLED!!!”  
  
The bald elf looks up at the debacle, smiles then goes back to whatever he does.  
  
_THE GALL  
  
_“Tell me, Inquisitor,” Leliana is pushing her body forward, any more and she’ll fall for real, “Why are you so intent on draping yourself over our Ambassador like some desperate whore?”  
  
Excuse me?  
  
“Josie is brilliant at the Game but she has a kind, naive heart when it comes to love,” she brings herself closer to hiss, “she has no idea you have any romantic interest in her. Yes, I know all about your hand-holding and gentle blushes.”  
  
Harel was beginning to get dizzy and nauseous to the point she may throw up. A good payback for Solas’ transgressions.  
  
Wait, Josephine had _no idea_ how she felt?  
Even after that accidental little magic sharing session?  
  
“What do you mean-hrrrgh-ugh” she had to fight back the wave of nausea that overtook her suddenly, “what do you mean she has no idea? She’s so **handsy** **.** Is being all touchy-feely a normal Antivan thing.”  
  
The Spymistress pulls the Herald back sharply, watching with amusement as the elf stumbles, skin ashen from fear. As the Inquisitor balances herself, she finds her torture unending, for Baron Plucky has taken up residence on her shoulder.  
  
“You obviously know nothing of Orlesian or Antivan culture. To her, all of that is just,” Leliana waves a hand, “inconsequential behaviour between friends.”  
  
Leliana nearly releases a bark of laughter as revelation dawns on the Qunari’s face.   
Yes, you little fool, _friends_.  
Nothing more.  
  
There is a confused look on Harel’s face as if trying to understand how such a touchy-feely culture exists. Confused how someone can show so much kindness without meaning it to tether. Show love without it being taken as legitimate affection.  
Then again, being starved for affection like a certain hermit Swamp Witch she knew can make anyone think the pompous nations as absurdly tactile. Despite the elf's willingness to grab anyone in a hug, she did it more as an expression, not expecting anything to be reciprocated.   
  
“Now, enough of your dancing, Fen’Harel,” the Mistress growls “you will answer me truthfully or else my bird will not hesitate to **pluck** your eyes out **and eat them**.”  
  
Baron Plucky squawks at the mention of snacks.  
  
_Ah, so that’s where he gets his name_.  
  
“You wish to court Josephine?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you are legitimate in your affections?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“And you are willing to charge headlong into this despite being a cursed, assault-born, foul-mouthed, cretinous, childish, peasant half-breed?”  
  
Leliana could see she touched a nerve with every single one of her insults.  
The green of her eyes began to shine with the beginning of tears but she did not flinch.  
Clan Lavellan’s ire towards the elf was no secret to her.  
But she needed to be sure this capricious little Halla knew that if she bulldozed her way into Josie’s life, that she better expect names like that and **worse** from the nobles and gossipers.  
One would think her time with the Qunari mercenaries would have toughened her up.  
  
“She...” Harel begins softly, Baron Plucky is eager to do her harm but Leliana shakes her head at him, not yet, “In Haven, when I asked to borrow writing things I...I just wanted to talk to her...” an almost reverent voice, “she has the most beautiful accent, I would forget everything she said simply because I was so focused on the way she could just say things. And her laugh,” the tears are flowing down her face, “ _Fenhedis_ when she laughs I feel like I’m going to combust and freeze at the same time. And her eyes! She’s got these golden rings in her eyes that just _shine_ in the sunlight and I just...She’s so smart and witty and knows too much about _everything_ yet she’s so _unbearably kind,_ she doesn’t make me feel stupid or like some _half-breed_.”  
  
Little green tendrils of magic are pouring off of her, catching the Baron’s attention as he tries to eat them; thinking the victim is producing worms.  
  
“Leliana, I feel like I’m going to throw up or go crazy half of the time but when I’m with her I forget and it’s _magical_ because I never forget! I feel, I...I feel like an Antaam with his Sword, his soul in his hand and losing it would mean death. I know I’m just some Dalish backwater Oxman heretic with nothing to my name _but my_ name! But....but....”

“She gives me peace...and without her, I feel like I’m literally going to float away....” is all the elf can choke out before the tendrils fade away, leaving the Raven perturbed and hungry.  
  
It was the Ambassador’s duty to be courteous and kind.  
But it was not her job to anchor the elf.  
And yet she did.  
She always did.  
  
The Mistress has learned to hide her emotions very well considering her tutelage.  
In that moment, they are still very well hidden but she begins to reconsider a few things.  
Firstly, the Herald was nothing like Marjorlaine.

There was no pretending, no ulterior motives in that speech.  
Just honesty and affection.  
A speech Josie would love to hear considering the starlight and brutish poetry of the confession.  
_Ugh, romantics_.  
  
Leliana examines the Qunari and thinks of the dusty, bruised little thing they had kneeling in the prison in Haven. The wisecracks and nervous laughter only stifled by the threat of execution and treason.  
  
_“Done having the lover’s spat so I can get back to soiling myself in peace?” the_ _had elf_ _said sarcastically,_ _unaware of the mark on her hand, or her grand fate._ _  
  
_Now she looked at the Herald, t _he Inquisitor_ and saw the same precocious scamp, but hardening by the burden, all while trying desperately to hold onto herself. She was unaccustomed to praise yet drank it up, a rampant ego focused on dramatics to make her a centre of attention.  
  
The plucky little thing just wanted to love and be loved.  
How cliche.  
But Josie always did love a storybook romance.  
  
“You do not have my blessing,” The Mistress spoke harshly, Harel’s eyes became wide then darting to the bird, “But, that does not mean I forbid you to proceed. I will still watch you closely and I swear Herald,” her tone becomes dangerous as her eyes narrow, “if you break her heart, you will **wish** I had let you drop.”  
  
Baron Plucky circles over the Spymaster’s head before landing on her outstretched arm, “Go now, our Ambassador has taken an early night for once, so you cannot stalk her as usual.” the Qunari was wiping her tears away but stopped to shoot Leliana a dirty look.  
  
The Mistress is now cooing to her prized bird in Orlesian, promising him treats for doing such a splendid job with la crétin.  
  
She hears the elf make her way back to the library but is once again disturbed from her thoughts.  
  
“Leliana,” comes the Inquisitor, head poking out from the stairwell, voice soft and embarrassed “do you think I stand a chance? I’m not a noble, I’m just....What if she doesn’t like me back?”  
  
_Ugh._  
Apparently threatening the elf translates to “Yes! Come to me about your cloying little insecurities as we’re friends now!”.  
  
The Spymistress opened her mouth to spit a well-meaning barb ‘ _I am not here to play nursemaid, Inquisitor’_ but she faltered.  
  
Instead, she smiled a bright grin and laughed a true giggle, something she hadn’t done in ages.  
Maker, what a silly creature they had for a leader.  
She may have quite the ego but she truly had no idea of the political power she wielded.  
  
“There is good and bad to everything; I suggest you harden your shell for what is to come,” an encouraging smile, “As for our Ambassador, that is a question you need to ask her directly.”  
  
The elf smiled, the words brewing in her head, before bowing to the Mistress and clopping down the stairs, new energy in her step.  
  
Leliana rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms out, Baron Plucky taking flight to roost on his perch.  
  
With that mess over with, it was time to send out the assassins to kill a few assassins, destroy the contract and save Josie’s stubborn, naive, _compassionate_ little life.  
  
Maybe the Ambassador and the Inquisitor had more things in common than she thought.  
  
Leliana scrubbed her gloved hand through her hair as she walked towards her desk, prepping for the inevitable scolding she’d receive once her friend knew.  
  
She snorted a soft laugh.  
  
The Inquisitor was about to get quite an earful from their potential paramour.  
A good way to test the waters before jumping in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, over there in the back. yea, the one ignoring me.  
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> I appreciate yall for looking at this indulgent fucking bullshit.
> 
> Stay safe, eat fruits, stop trying to summon Dumat you pricks.


	10. Kost, Kadan, Kost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is met with rage and takes flight  
> Thinking comes easily to her, but sifting through the thoughts is hard  
> Finding words is even harder
> 
> The Bull puts down his mantle but never his horns
> 
> And a spark, once small, has erupted into a storm.

It was so very hard to focus. The War Council had, for once, summoned her to look upon the endless fucking updates of the endless fucking problems.  
  
Normally it was the other way around.  
Normally, she would call them.  
  
Normally it was fine, she would quip about some locations, delegate tasks, confuse everyone by relaying missives in Qunlat or Elvhen and, maybe, laugh at the requests sent by Sera and Varric.  
  
Today, however, the room felt as it should sitting on a mountain summit; pressurized and lacking in air.  
It was a role reversal; Leliana was sporting a rare smile as she looked over her reports.  
Josephine, however, moved her hand with the usual amount of grace; only the loud press of quill against parchment as a clue to her anger.  
Cullen, poor Cullen, was so lost on the Game being played, that he just tried his damnedest to ignore the bizarre nature of a happy Spymaster and a snarling Ambassador.  
  
Knowing Leliana, she was probably pleased because of Josephine’s sour reaction to the Inquisitor; that smile vanished as the diplomat shot a glare to the Orlesian who quickly feigned stoicism.  
The speed the Mistress changed her emotions and composure was frighteningly extraordinary.  
  
Looks like the Herald wasn’t the only one getting the whip of subvocal derision today.  
  
The Lady looked completely normal and yet the room felt far too large yet like a cage.  
Harel was trapped in with a Nightingale, a Mabari and a Cat who was actually a fucking _dragon.  
  
_Whenever she accidentally caught Josephine’s stare, the Herald felt a chilling spike run along her spine; grey eyes colder than death.  
No wonder the nobles who came simpering to Skyhold often left either delighted or _traumatized_.  
  
Maybe she should have let Leliana drop her down the tower.  
  
No matter, she steeled herself against the potent animosity disguised as a lilting voice.  
  
“I do hope you have been practising the Dance of Six Candles for the Winter Palace’s reception.”  
  
She would have joked.  
_Step, step, turn, step, shuffle, spin, My Lady! I_ _do_ _have_ _ **some**_ _idea of culture, you know!  
  
_Instead, just a small noise escaped earning her a frown from the diplomat.  
  
She wanted to confess, confess how she felt, why and how, the reason she so quickly leapt to Leliana’s plan.  
  
She needed to think about how to broach this. Gather her words so everything would be perfect.  
  
Or blow up in her face of course.  
  
But she needed to be prepared, not wild, not impulsive.  
  
Prepared.  
  
A cough from their Commander caught the elf’s attention as if trying to break through the palatable disdain.  
  
Dirthamen’s shadowy balls, this meeting was going to be a long one.  
  


* * *

  
“So the grey skin and horns aren’t just for show, eh Saarebas?”  
  
The Ben-Hassrath’s big, meaty paw nearly sent Harel flying as he patted her back. To try and get away from Skyhold and the wrath of their Ambassador, the elf agreed to help Bull with his Qun business in the Storm’s Coast. She needed some time away to properly formulate words, even at the expense of the diplomat’s anger.  
  
Were she indifferent towards Josephine, she would have snarled back at the show of subtle force, _“I did what you asked, your family is now free to trade. It doesn’t matter_ _h_ _ow you got what you want.”  
  
_But she cared far too much about the Lady’s feelings, especially considering how attentive she was to her own.  
  
It would be cruel to just bark back.  
It would hurt her just as much.  
She betrayed her no bloodshed policy without even considering her route.  
Of course she would feel slighted.  
  
That and Leliana would actually kill her.  
  
**“BOSS!”  
  
**A jolt of lightning flew over her horns and zapped Bull right in the chest. It wasn’t a particularly strong pulse but it was enough to surprise the spy thoroughly.  
  
“The **FUCK** was that for?!” He growled but there was no viciousness in his words, “You were dozing off again and I was **trying** to be nice, you little bastard!”  
  
“Leave her alone chief, I know if I could use magic, I would’ve zapped your ass a long time ago.” Krem piped up from the sidelines.  
  
“Nah,” Bull once again claps a heavy hand on Harel’s shoulder, “We can’t just take away Dalish’s only hobby. RIGHT DALISH?!”  
  
The company mag-archer- the company archer said exactly what was expected of her.  
  
“For the last time, I am _not_ a mage!” she said while using her _bow_ as a walking stick.  
  
“Right, right, I believe you, sure,” Harel says while combing back her wet hair, “I’ll just pretend I met a different elf at the Arlathvhen.” she turns her head to speak over her shoulder, “I saw _that elf’s_ folks in the Dirthavaren, by the way. Olafin gave his regards.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure _that elf_ is very pleased to hear about that Clan and hopes Olafin stops thinking he can fight every demon he sees.”  
  
“Answer my fucking question, Saarebas,” Bull pokes Harel in her ribs with a large finger, “I didn’t know you could wear Vitaar.”  
  
The elf grins as she slaps a hand over her red-pasted arm; hard as iron due to the paint. She’s wearing the patterns of Par Vollen which shows starkly in her Antaam-Saar. She had the outfit lying around but now was the best time to wear it.  
  
“My mentor used to coat me with the stuff since I was the company healer; this plus a front-loaded barrier makes me invincible,” Harel then turns sheepishly away from Bull, “but it makes me itchy if I wear it too long.”  
  
“And the Antaam-Saar?” Bull waggles his eyebrows at the Inquisitor who jabs him with her elbow, “Trying to come back all bloody and hot for a certain gold human, ey Boss?” he’s laughing now.  
  
She pushes him with full force, which only makes him laugh harder at the feeble attempt.  
  
“You can take your fucking ideas and shove them up your ass, Hassrath,” she retorts, “You know I’m Vashoth raised by Tal-Vashoth plus I openly reject the Qun. I’m strutting in with a full Par Vollen kit to piss them the _fuck_ off.”  
  
“You’re definitely going to get someone mad, Boss,” Bull replies, as he steps in a puddle too hard, splashing the Inquisitor, “We’re here for an alliance but you’re dressed for war,” the one eye narrows, “isn’t the Inquisition looking for help?”  
  
The band is nearing their rendezvous point as Bull scans the area. Never know when Venatori can pop out. He can see a shimmer of green passing around; the squirrely little kid demon thing that Harel practically adopted. She insisted she brings him, most likely to help get his contact mad. He didn’t travel with the group; said everyone together was too _loud_ or some shit. The demon thing was everything the Qun hated.  
  
He was a good kid though.  
  
Harel turns her green eyes to Bull, red Vitaar and grey skin highlighting the colour to a near glow.  
  
“I don’t trust the Qun.” she says bluntly, “I’m here because I trust you, but don’t ever expect me to accept the Qun or anything they offer.”  
  
Normally, when one was faced with a sheer distaste for their faith, they would lash out or try to make the offender understand. In Bull’s case, he grunted, not approval, not disapproval. He was simply taking in the words, weighing them against his beliefs and turning them around in his head.  
  
He looked at his boys, Krem harassing Stitches for potions, Skinner playfully punching Dalish a little too hard.  
  
He tried to think of the Ariqun but all he could see was his boys.  
  


* * *

  
Gatt had read the reports and knew the Inquisitor was a Saarebas and fought exactly like one. He was also _very_ angry that Bull neglected to mentioned her pet demon. Bull just waved him off as they hiked the pebbled path to the beacon. They were already slathered in Venatori blood, the rain doing nothing to wash away the viscera.  
  
“You must be happy, Saarebas,” Gatt started up, “No leash to hold you, no Arvaraad to control you. You walk without any discipline or purpose in your life other than to,” he waves his hand at her outfit, “ _irritate_.”  
  


Harel just rolls her eyes at the pissy elf.  
  


“I am surprised Hissrad, that you openly walk next to the Vashoth and the _demon_.”  
  
“Ah, come on Gatt, they’re alright.” Bull replies, but Gatt waves him off, not willing to hear the rest.  
  
“Trouble,” Harel says sharply, taking position behind a tree.  
  
The team gets into formation to attack the Venatori guarding the beacon.  
Harel is pulling wisps of mana together to charge her barrier and cast one on the team while Cole gets ready to throw his dagger.  
  
Bull grips his axe, a sharp cleaver Harel had forged for him.  
They wait for her signal.  
She’s charging herself for war now; storm magic crackling in her palm dangerously.  
Whoever was getting that was going to be more than dead.  
  
A nod.  
  
Cole releases his dagger, burying it in a Tevinter’s throat while Bull charged, armoured shoulder meeting a mage and shoving the attacker straight off the cliff.  
  
Two more.  
  
Gatt leaps out and slices through the hand of a Spellbinder, his still clenched fist and staff falling away. He flips the blade then plunges the sword straight down into an armour gap, through the Venatori’s collarbone and into his heart.  
  
One left.  
  
The Inquisitor makes quick work of the remaining Vint, squeezing her fist then hurling a bolt of lightning that causes the enemy to explode on impact.  
  
Delicious.  
  
Bull cheers the gory show as the team approaches their destination.  
  
Though the Herald wouldn't call herself prissy or finicky, she would call herself hygienic.  
She takes a towel from her pouch and wipes the fine spatters of blood from her face, smearing her Vitaar.  
  
“You look pretty good with a bit of blood on you, Boss,” the Ben-Hassrath spoke as he kneeled to light the beacon, “But I guess Josephine isn’t a fan of the whole wolf after dinner look.”  
  
He saw tension flash across her face before she settled into an easy smile.  
  
Weird.  
  
“Hygiene, Bull, Hygiene.” was all she drawled at him.  
  
The group watched as the Dreadnoughts push forward, blasting a Venatori ship clean out of the water. Destruction, violent and swift. The power of Adaar, the actual weapon, showing its full force. Harel sees why Herah carried that name so proudly now.  
  
Blast through your enemies before they can even think.  
Like a fucking cannon.  
  
“Horns up, horns up.” came Cole, prattling like the rain.  
  
Bull turns his head to the other coast, a legion of Venatori encroaching on the Chargers.  
Fuck, there’s alot of them.  
  
They’ll be slaughtered.  
  
“Bull,” The Inquisitor says with a grim tone, “there’s too fucking many. They’ll die if we don’t pull them.”  
  
Bull is shouting in his mind for his men to run, shouting, screaming so that he’s not forced to choose. So that he’s not forced to finally make a decision between the two worlds he straddles.  
  
“If you pull your men, the Dreadnought is dead,” Gatt says through clenched teeth, “You’ll be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth, **Vashedan** , half the Qun already believe you are! You’ll be throwing away **EVERYTHING** Hissrad!”  
  
The Qun, like a rabid beast, so quick to turn its head to bite.  
They already saw him as a deserter.  
  
“Paid 7 sovereigns but it’s worth it,” comes Cole again, eyes reflecting a flash of lightning, “tastes like year old horse piss but the big lug always talked about that nasty swill,” blue eyes, never looking away from the Chargers, “Lok something.”  
  
“Maaras-Lok” says Bull under his breath.  
  
He looks to Harel, as if for guidance, as if to a Besrathari who’ll point him forward, tell him what to do, what he’ll be so he won’t think it’s all a waste.  
  
She understands.  
  
“Call the retreat.” she finally says.  
  
The horn sounds and the Chargers disappear from the hill.  
Gatt is furious, pacing, eyes wild with disbelief as if he’ll draw a knife to the half-breed who gave the command. Anymore fury and he’d be foaming at the mouth.  
  
“ _I thought I was crazy,”_ Harel thought as she took a step back from the elf.  
  
“You threw away everything for them, Hissrad!!!” Gatt shouted, anguish heavy in his tone, “I looked up to you and you burn it all for this Inquisition, for the Saarebas!”  
  
“Hey,” Harel steps forward, a hand on Bull’s bicep, “His name is The Iron Bull and you and the Qun can, not so kindly, **fuck off**.”  
  
At first, it looked like Gatt would combust, veins popping out, teeth bared, but then he softened, unwilling to fight for someone who so clearly abandoned the Qun.  
  
“Panahedan, **Tal-Vashoth**.”  
  
The elf slipped between the two and like the rain in the wind, was gone.  
  
The Dreadnaught, however, found itself stranded, a line of Venatori pounding its hull with fire and ice. If it were a normal ship, it would sink under the waves.  
  
Two Qunari and one Spirit watched, each knowing that Qunari Dreadnoughts don’t sink.  
  
An explosion so grand, so very, very Qunari, like a dragon’s fire billowing into the sky, hot enough to part the heavy rains.  
  
“Cole, go find the Chargers. Bring them here.” the Qunari elf said to the boy who vanished soon after she spoke.  
  
Nothing but rain on stone, the sounds of the sea and wet grass collecting water. Above all was the sound of a man trying to understand what lay ahead of him, what his purpose was, why he was chiselled into this shape only to be abandoned.  
  
He was ashamed because he knew he caused his own exile.  
  
Bull felt a smaller hand tug on his own and looked down to see the Inquisitor sitting on her heels, muddy boots be damned.  
  
“Kost,” she said with green doe eyes, “speak with me Bull.”  
  
The horned giant moved to sit cross-legged, he was no actual priest, his legs would hurt if he sat like one.

  
_**“**_ _ **The Kathaban and his forces fought well, did they not?”**_ Harel spoke in Qunlat.  
  
_**“Damn good**_ _ **men**_ _ **, all dead.”**_ He shook his head at the smouldering remains and found it akin to his life.  
  
_**“Then we should commend them for their faith. I may dislike the Qun, but I will not disrespect those who died for what they believed in, even if**_ _ **their belief was forced**_ _ **.”  
  
**_Bull nods slowly and breathes in the sea air.  
  
_**“**_ _ **Ashkaari**_ _ **Taashath**_ _ **raised**_ _ **you well,”**_ Bull says, noting the furrow of the Inquisitor’s brow, _**“A priest begat a priestess even though he was**_ _ **not her sire.**_ _ **”**_  
  
“How-” the words shocked the Qunlat from her tongue, reverting to Common.  
  
“Former spy, remember,” the Bull says quietly, all too aware of the new prefix.  
  
He sighs, then claps his hands on his knees, “I may have once been in the priesthood, but you know me, Boss. The only time I pray is when I fuck.”  
  
He’s earned a chuckle from the half-breed Qunari elf, who bows her head to the seaside.  
  
Though he doesn’t say it, he sees, not the Inquisitor, but a Tamassran shaping an organization as they would an Imekari.  
  
_Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra.  
  
_He understands now, why she never finishes the prayer.  
  
Anaan esaam Qun  
Victory is in the Qun _  
  
_

* * *

  
She had soaked in the bath, thinking of how to approach the Lady.  
Honesty.  
That should be the forefront of the conversation.  
  
She was drying her hair when another part came to her.  
Clarity.  
This wasn’t about her, it was about both of them, no jumble of words, no quips, no smiles. Be as direct as possible. Put away your ego.  
  
The last thought came to her as she fastened the ropes of her clean Antaam-Saar.  
Acceptance.  
If Josephine was only interested in her as a friend, she would accept that and be at peace.  
  
She felt the sting in her nose, the coming of tears and fought it down.  
Acceptance.  
  


* * *

  
If the woman paced anymore, she was going to tear a hole in her rug.  
She was mad, oh was she _mad_.  
But thankfully, not as mad as before. Harel’s journey seemed to have allowed both of them to think about what happened, allowing more reason to come through.  
  
Harel snorted at the idea of Josephine needing time to become less furious.  
It didn’t sound like real words.  
Josephine and furious. No. Never.  
  
They were in the Inquisitor's room, balcony doors open wide as a fire crackled to ward off the chill. She needed the cold of the mountains to help remind her not to fucking explode into a ball of flame. That and the room was the only place she felt safe enough to speak; she didn't need Leliana bursting in on the pair in the garden or in the office.   
No, this needed to be approached carefully and without distraction.  
  
  
“Did I say something amusing, _Harel?_ ”  
  
Ah.  
  
The Inquisitor ran a hand through her still damp hair, the white locks falling past her horns and swept to the side.  
  
“No, I was just....” the Qunari squeaks out, “thinking.”  
  
A sigh.  
  
“You blatantly disregarded my wishes to solve this without violence! I could have gotten through without any lives sacrificed but you leapt at Leliana’s offer,” another sigh, heavier, sadder, “most likely because it was the simpler route.”  
  
Harel jumped at the accusation, “Simpler? I had to go ask Leliana myself and you know how I get along with her!” hands slap against parted knees, “I did it because there were people _trying to kill you_ and your way would have seen assassins at your doorstep!”  
  
“So you did it to protect Skyhold from the hir-”  
  
“I DID IT FOR YOU!” The Inquisitor leaps up, eyes wide, in a shout, “YOU **STUBBORN** , **BEAUTIFUL** WOMAN, I DID IT BECAUSE I WAS SCARED YOU’D DIE!”  
  
whoops...  
  
So much for a non-impulsive approach.  
  
Lips parted, shock blatant, eyes devoid of anger. The Ambassador dared not speak, like a Fennec being cornered by a Wolf.  
  
"What- I," the diplomat catches herself, hoisting herself away from the compliment knowing the Game by heart. A compliment was just a word, "That does not make it any better. You would so willingly sacrifice people's lives just to save mine. So much blood spilt when I could have prevented that." a flash in her eyes, as if recalling a memory, "bloodshed can never be the first answer."  
  
The Herald stiffens as Josephine takes to pacing again.  
As a storyteller, she can feel the presence of a tale waiting.  
She wanted to hear of the Lady's woes so she gently skirted around till she was ready.  
  
"You showed far too much decency to a man who wanted to kill you," the elf says, eyes following the pacing woman, "Call me a barbarian for believing that amount of goodwill to be a little too much, but I think...I think not everyone deserves the compassion you're so willing to give. You're very merciful, Josephine, and to see that kindness come back to harm you is a terrible thing I refuse to allow."  
  
Grey eyes look over the elf, as if trying to see more than the dancing Halla she portrays herself as. Trying to find motive.  
  
"I don't question your will to find a peaceful answer to everything; I just want to know why," the Qunari elf lowers her voice, a bassy tone reverberating, "why would you prefer to always take the path of most resistance even when it means your life." a small, humourless chuckle, "your life matters, you know."  
  
The diplomat sighs.  
  
"You want to know why?" her expression is downcast as she finally answers the question, "I....I was once a bard, as surprising as that sounds...As young gentry in Orlais, many us flocked to this life as it was full of passion and excitement," she draws closer to the Qunari, who regards her with full attention, "I was one such example...but...it is not all romance and roguish smiles as the stories would tell," she tries to force the words out, only pushing out air until she regains herself, "there was a night someone was sent to kill my patron," there's pain in those eyes now, "We fought like children over a stairwell but he drew a knife and I just....pushed him. When I took off his mask, I recognized him! He could have been something more than just the blood pooling on the ground but...I...I killed him instead. I never stopped thinking that maybe there was a chance! Maybe I could have prevented his death if I just spoke but...that was when I knew I would remain a diplomat; a life of bloodshed was not my path." there was that look again, the faraway stare she saw on the bridge, "I still see him..."  
  
She quickly snaps back to herself, eyes aware, jaw clenched.   
  
As if once again banishing the phantom of a young man who's twisted neck and broken hand still grasped tightly to the golden ruffles.   
  
"It was a mild-weathered day when I saw it, his parents coming to my school to collect..." she gulps down her emotions which threatened to burst, " to collect his belongings..."   
  
Harel doesn't speak, she takes in the crackling of the fire and understands why the Lady wields her quill like a sword.  
Because violence turns to death.  
But words?  
Words can turn into peace.  
More often than not, words can prevent death.  
  
The Lady killed someone without meaning to, the death scarring the way she approached everything.  
  
Harel thought of Avrielle, a death which paved her path in stone.  
  
She understood.  
  
"I understand, and I'm sorry for disregarding you entirely, you're the Inquisition's Ambassador and I'm supposed to refer to you for advice; ignoring you outright and keeping this from you was not good." the mage narrows her eyes, "Not wrong mind you, considering you were being hunted, but not good."  
  
Josephine is once again wringing her hands and Harel has half a mind to ask if she ever stops thinking.  
But now was not the time, no quips, no smiles, just be direct.  
  
"And I apologize for my shamefully poor behaviour over the last few days. Such blatant ire towards you was uncalled for as you did indeed keep your word and assisted me with my family's dilemma. They say Antivans are passionate and I have spent years burying all such raging emotions but," there's a short breath of laughter, "something about you just makes me discard every last piece of my training. It's infuriating."  
  
Oh?  
  
"No matter what happens," the diplomat reaches out to take the Qunari's hand, "You will always be my friend. I will never understand how we came to be so close over such a short period of time but I appreciate you nonetheless. I do hope you feel the same."  
  
She hears it, like a whisper in her brain.  
**STRIKE NOW!**  
  
The elf shakes herself free of the gentle grip and watches the Ambassador with determined eyes.   
  
Here goes nothing.  
  
“I...” Harel claps her hands over her mouth and breathes, freezing and _oh no oh no she's choking_ , “I...Leliana said you’re an innocentinlove.” she speaks through the fingers.  
  
Great.  
Just great Harel.  
You finally get the opportunity and you shove the conversation elsewhere to give yourself more time.  
Praise the Inquisition, your leader is a _fucking coward_.  
  
Josephine is taken fully by surprise, almost missing the garbled speech that flew from the Herald's mouth but as she recalls the sentence in her mind, she flits over the name Leliana.  
  
The knot in her eyebrows is back.  
  
“Leliana said I’m an _innocent in love?_ Why is she discussing such _personal_ things with you,” angry surprise now, oh boy, “I thought you two weren’t getting along?”  
  
Harel is especially surprised when she hears a muttered _cazzo._ She may not speak Antivan, but she knew the vulgarity by heart.  
  
“Oh” she starts back up, worry replacing the anger, this woman was like a fucking whirlwind, “She threatened you didn’t she?”  
  
Excuse me?  
  
“Yeeeas. Yes, she did” Harel said, nodding like a damn buffoon while standing at a slant, arms crossed, “Is...is that normal?”  
  
Josephine doesn’t meet Harel’s gaze, instead, she focuses on the mountains, hands wringing.  
  
“Our Spymaster has always had a talent for glowering at anyone who shows even the smallest hint of romantic interest in me,” she sighs, “before I met Leliana, I would often sidestep my way past these suitors but now, now I am not even approached. That’s how terrifying she is.”  
  
Harel laughed in agreement, still nervous “Yes, she is _absolutely_ terrifying.”  
  
There is a slight reprieve before she starts back up, “Which is why I am so so _so sorry_ that she did this. Our friendship is one that I treasure greatly...” she falters, “I did not see your intentions as romantic, I assure you. I apologize for anything Leliana has done to you and any confusion on my part.”  
  
The Mistress was right.  
The woman was the sharpest needle in the sewing kit.  
But with romance?  
Thick as a brick.  
Harel wasn't going to let it slide.  
  
Let her hear you.  
Get through the wall of politicking and double-sided words.  
Get through the sweet words with false meanings she so often hears.  
Let her hear you, directly, honestly, truthfully.  
And maybe then, she'll understand.  
  
  
  
Harel claps her hands together again, rubbing vigorously.  
  
And goes blank.  
  
MAKER’S FUCKING BEARD.  
  
She can’t get the words out, choking, suffocating, ice creeping, closing in, crushing, freezing.  
  
  
Then a whisper, like the wind in her ear made itself known.  
  
_You will be fine  
  
Kost_

 _  
_ The Herald breathes and begins again, balancing herself, “It was in Haven, on the first day I was introduced to the War Table, I wanted to borrow some parchment from you. I ended up in your office telling you that story about the dancing Halla and you laughed this bright beautiful laugh that just lit you up like a fucking pyre.” she breathes and continues, refusing to give the Ambassador any space to object, “and that’s when I realized that I wanted to make you laugh and smile and put down that mask and you’re so smart but you don’t make me feel like an idiot and you’re kind and you came to me at the bridge and you were just so.....and I want.. just...like m...more......mmmm...... _romantically?_ ”  
  
The last part is barely a squeak.  
So much for clarity.  
And brevity.  
Fuck the whole plan.  
  
“Josephine, I like you very much, in the romantic sense, so much so that I feel I'll throw up.” she finally _finally_ belts out.  
  
Shock.  
Pure _fucking_ shock.  
  
Harel gulps, the silence _literally_ killing her.  
She could feel her heart beating in her ears so strongly, she’s worried she’d go deaf.  
  
“That...When you were to bury your friend, Ellana. In my office....there was a feeling you had with your magic.” the Lady finally spoke.  
  
The Herald could only nod dumbly, like a jackass.  
  
“I didn’t want to assume.” she paces, Maker she paces, “that you harboured any feelings for me. I thought that _thing_ that I felt was just your magic," her voice is almost too quiet, "I thought it was just me.”  
  
Ah.  
  
**AH  
  
AHHHHHH  
  
ELGAR'NAN'S FLAMING WILLY, SHE WAS HIDING IT!  
**  
The Inquisitor approached her slowly and took a small hand in hers, concentrating, weaving, sharing.  
  
A green spark fluttered over their hands as Josephine saw what exactly the plucky elf felt.  
  
Maker, she was scared, her hands were shaking. Nauseous, when was she not. Agony over rejection, fear like ice at what she was, the gossip the people looking. Sifting through each ugly thought, each horrid outcome until she reached the end, with nowhere to hide this time. A pool, warm, sinking in, like the sea bringing her in with the tide to meet the ocean. Leaves, incense and the sea, a warm embrace on a bridge, a light while trudging through snow, hands intertwined in a moment of grief, a song while sitting closely.  
  
Affection.  
No.  
Adoration.  
  
Josephine braces her hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, gulping down air as if she had been drowning and finds herself in an embrace.  
The Qunari’s bare skin is warm against her as if she were burning a fever, her head now cradled by two grey hands, holding her tightly against her chest.  
  
A heartbeat, wild and fast, as wild and fast as its body and mind.  
  
“Harel, Harel,” the Ambassador speaks into the red rope of the outfit, “You’re crushing me.”  
  
Instantly, she’s released but a slender hand is kept on the elf’s grey shoulder.  
It moves against the skin, moving over the rope, pausing at the light scar on her throat as it brushes a blushing cheek with the back of her hand.  
  
“If it is permissible, I would be amenable to a closer rela-”  
  
Like magic, quick as a Fade Step, she’s caught, like a rabbit in a bear’s jaws.  
  
A hand laced in the fingers skirting the elf’s face, another wrapping around her waist, pulling her closely, lips pressed against hers.  
  
And she feels sparks, Maker, she feels sparks rushing down and around.  
  
Harel begins to glow green with mana, green as the Breach, green as the Fade.  
  
Josephine is the first to break off the kiss, starry eyes fully vacant.  
Harel is very much the same, both speechless.  
  
The Ambassador breathes against a breath pushing back, eyes locked, then they let go.  
  
“You are a gift, My Lady.” was all the elf could eke out.  
  
Maker, would this woman ever stop flirting?  
  
The Qunari swings their still joined hands and brings the tangled pair up for a kiss. There’s a smile as she does it, the horned beast being so very coy.  
  
And once more they are pulled together, Josephine settling her head to listen to the Qunari’s heartbeat, other hand wrapped around a muscled waist.  
  
“Will you tell me what Leliana did to you, Harel?” the diplomat says softly against the Herald’s skin.  
  
They are in something akin to a dancing position but far less movement.  
  
Harel mulls over the possibility of selling the Spymistress out for her transgressions.  
On one hand, Josephine will make the Sister see the Maker.  
On the other hand.  
The Sister may make the Inquisitor see the Maker.  
  
As if shocked, the elf stiffens, feeling lips pressed against the cloth of her Antaam-Saar.  
By the smallclothes of Koslun, the woman was a witch using her newly found wiles to get an answer from her.  
  
The _GALL  
  
_“She may have,” she pauses as lips come in contact with the skin between the harness ropes, “She may have _almost pushed me off the Rookery_.”  
  
At once, all starry-eyes, blushes and poetry were gone.  
Josephine pushed herself off the elf, quiet rage building under her brow.  
  
“She did _what?!_ ”  
  
Oh my.  
Oh boy.  
  
“And she may have used her bird to _threaten me_.”  
  
There’s a pause to her anger, “The Baron? But he’s so gentle? I’ve heard the rumours but..”  
  
Oh of fucking course the sky rat would be kind to her.  
  
And the anger is back once more, knotting the beautiful expression into upset.  
  
The Qunari Elf couldn’t help but laugh despite the situation. She was so _fucking_ relieved. So happy, so full of love that she couldn’t give a nug’s ass about anything to do with Leliana, just the woman in front of her, quietly fuming.  
  
_**“Peace,**_ _ **my heart**_ _ **, Peace”**_ the elf whispers in Qunlat, _**“I cannot hear you when your heart beats faster than your words.”**_  
  
She takes the Ambassador’s head in her hands and kisses her brow. She breathes in the black hair as the woman relaxes into her touch and whispers again.  
  
“Kost, Kadan, Kost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES  
> Well, that's a lie but I wanted to say it ok.
> 
> The Six Candles thing is from some party banter between Vivienne and Bull.  
> Translations:  
> Besrathari: A recruiter and trainer of the Ben-Hassrath
> 
> Kathaban: Leader of the Qunari naval forces; the admiral.
> 
> Ashkaari: "One who seeks," or "one who thinks;" scientists, philosophers, or those who have found enlightenment.
> 
> Imekari- Child


	11. Harden your shell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Palace, a den of Hyenas and Vultures,  
> a Halla who sees herself as a Wolf walks in  
> The cat who charms them follows behind
> 
> She makes a scene, meets the family
> 
> And tries to remember that there's good and bad to everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEIZURE WARNING!: I put a [Pixel Gif of Harel](https://w-h-4-t.tumblr.com/post/642491681980170240/seizure-warning-there-she-is-inquisitor-fenharel) that I made recently down at the bottom (she's busting it down like Thotiana). Go and observe the fool.

Something like a tremor.  
A light vibration that would tickle where her horns met her skull. Normally, a Qunari’s horns jutted from their hairline; their forehead coming up to meet the black bone. Instead, hers started nearer to her temples then sweeping back, horn bases hidden under her hair.  
  
Must be a Qunari elf thing.  
  
Then again, she’s seen drawings of other Qunari; the way horns grow is different for each person. A sketch of the Kirkwall Arishok compared to a female Quanadar farmer made her realize just how unique each set was.  
  
The man looked like a damn dragon compared to the woman’s simple forked pair.  
  
Again, the tremors came, lulling her, almost making her roll her head to the side.  
  
It was hard to get lost in her thoughts when she kept getting pulled back so nicely.  
Anchored yet floating.  
  
“Can you feel that?” came a voice from behind her head.  
  
Nails scraping along the bone like a cat sharpening their claws.  
A cat in human form, curious indeed.  
  
“It’s solid bone, so no, but when you put your nails on it, it kind of feels...Well, it feels nice. I don’t know how to describe it, but don’t stop.” Harel confessed with a breathy chuckle.  
  
A pause to eye the horns closely.  
  
“Do they grow?” came the voice again.  
  
The nails came tracing up the horns, fingertips grazing the divots till they reached the points, sharp enough to skewer but dull enough to press a thumb to.  
  
“Yes and no,” The Inquisitor droned as the nails began tapping on the bone, “It doesn’t grow endlessly, like a Halla’s, but if you chop it off, it’ll take decades to grow back.”  
  
“And this?” the hands squeeze the horns, holding them in place.  
  
A laugh escaped the Herald’s lips, but far from the Hyena chatter she lets loose upon the world.  
  
“Well, now I can’t move my head.” she quipped.  
  
“Good to know.” a sly remark.  
  
How crafty.  
  
It had only been a week since the jumbled, awful confession Harel foisted on Josephine.  
And the not so awful kiss.  
Time stretched, stuttered and halted, held up by strings of disbelief until green eyes would meet grey. Then she would remember.  
  
The Qunari elf was courting the Lady.  
  
It was midday in Skyhold when she was called to the Ambassador via runner. With Halamshiral on their doorstep, she probably needed her for a recap on etiquette, the Houses, who to speak to and who not to.  
  
The Game stuff or whatever.  
  
Instead, here she was, in her quarters, with Josephine skating her hands over her horns; an entranced, learning gaze devoid of any politicking mask. They were on the fainting couch, Harel’s body turned to the side as the inquisitive human examined and questioned her anatomy.  
  
“What does this have to do with you summoning me, Milady?” the Inquisitor said, rolling her shoulders as she relaxed into the touch.  
  
“Ah, yes,” she hears as hands release immediately from bone -much to the elf’s disappointment-, allowing Harel to turn to a blushing noblewoman, “It appears you’ve received some mail that needn’t be opened at the War Council due to its personal nature.”  
  
At the mention of ‘personal mail’, the Qunari flinched but was quickly reassured by a hand on her knee.  
  
“It is not from Clan Lavellan” the diplomat says directly, a smirk coming into play “But I believe you are going to enjoy this missive.”  
  
There is a ruffling of ruffles as Josephine delves into her clipboard; left unattended on the ground due to her examinations. She retrieves a letter from the bundle of papers, holding it out for Harel to take; a light brush of grey fingers on hers does not go unnoticed.  
  
Green eyes skim over each word, first confusion, then a bark of laughter as she recognizes the filthy syntax.  
  
“Herah! She wrote to me!!!” Harel pushes a hand through her hair, a laugh still on her lips, “The Valo-Kas are doing fine, pissy about some jobs, but fine. She says it took a while to get a letter to me, their last job had them in the Arbor Wilds knee-deep in muck for weeks; damn good pay though,” she traces a finger over some shapes, “Looks like Taashath wrote to me too, he doesn’t know how to write in Common, just Qunlat.” her wild grin has dissolved into a mellow smile, “He’s relieved to know I’m alright and that he’s good but Kaariss is still making terrible poetry, so maybe not so good after all.”  
  
The Qunari is reading over the letter and Josephine can easily see how enamoured she was.  
She feels just a little slighted.  
Jealous?  
_No._  
Josephine Cherette Montilyet does not get _jealous_.  
  
“A companion of yours?” the diplomat asks, disguising her intent well.  
  
Harel’s eyes flick up from the letter, then back down to smile like an idiot, blissfully unaware of the trap laid for her.  
  
“Taashath?” there’s a nostalgic look on the Herald’s face, “He’s my mentor but he’s practically my father. He gave me a life, a family, skills, _everything_.”  
  
Josephine didn’t show how relieved she was at this revelation and wasn’t planning on letting the good Herald know just how much it affected her.  
The brat had enough ammunition for teasing.  
  
Her mind went back to the elf’s father figure.  
Harel never mentioned that in her description of her mercenary work, then again, why would she.  
In the beginning of her time in Haven, she seemed defensive until her breakdown on the bridge.  
  
Josephine made a mental note to try and contact this Taashath.  
  
The odd Qunari puts a hand over the tawny one perched on her knee, snapping the woman from her thoughts “He’s the one who pulled me away from Clan Lavellan.” a smile, “The Clan was against having Qunari around after that incident. Even so, the traders who dealt with them couldn’t get anyone to take the escort job at the price they were offering. Shokrakar never turns down coin, so she sends Taashath, the gentlest of the bunch to keep the humans happy and the Elves less stabby. That’s when he saw me and the rest is history.’ there’s a faraway look in the Qunari’s eyes, “That’s just a piece of the story though.”  
  
The elf rolls up the parchment and sets it to her side, then holds Josephine’s hand in her own between them.  
  
There’s a smile on her face, not the wolfish grin or mischievous smirk.  
A happy memory recalled to reality.  
  
“Will you tell me the full tale?” Josephine asks, reaching out to brush a lock of white hair from the view of green eyes.  
  
There is a moment of silence as Harel considers, she looks to the parchment then to the joined hands.  
  
“Maybe another time,” she says cheerfully, “Right now, I need to make sure my winning smile is especially charming for Celene’s assassin.” black eyebrows waggle salaciously, “That and I’m sure there’s some Orlesian dowagers looking for a romp with a novelty Ox Rabbit.”  
  
Like a dancing Halla jumping away; a tale for another day.  
  
A gentle slap to the elf’s face has her laughing again.  
  
“Help! Help! I’m being assaulted by an Antivan Crow!” Harel sputters jokingly  
  
The slap turns into a pinch as she grabs the elf’s cheek between her fingers.  
  
“I’m beginning to think all of your pacifist speeches are just so people underestimate your talent for maiming.” Harel mutters through her stretched face.  
  
“I am against violence, not discipline. With 4 little siblings running around, I learned how to deal with scoundrels like you.” Josephine says with a wicked grin, releasing her cheek to pat the irritated skin “ Yvette is several times worse than you so you needn’t worry about anything drastic.”  
  
The Qunari elf laughs as she brings their foreheads to meet, “There’s someone worse than me? And they’re related to you? Mythal, and here I thought the Darkspawn Magister was the weirdest thing in Thedas.”  
  
“Must you have an answer for everything?” the diplomat replies, exasperation heavy in her tone, as she tangles her hand in white hair.  
  
“Always,” Harel says, closing the space between them for a kiss.  
  


* * *

  
Every time she bent her head down, she could feel the collar against her throat. Nothing about that damn uniform was comfortable or stylish. The damn cloth was brighter and itchier than her Vitaar except the outfit had no ability to deflect weapons. The Qunari elf had to constantly resist the urge to unbutton her coat and flash her chest like Varric; the stiffness was driving her crazy.  
  
After greeting Poncy Orlesian Contender to the Throne #1, she tried to get her bearings on where to go first.  
The place was _massive_.  
Everything was shiny, ostentatious and immaculately kept.  
  
Humans.....  
  
“Hello! You there! Rabbit!” the Inquisitor heard from her side as she slowly turned her head to see who in the _fuck_.  
  
A chipper Orlesian woman, obliviously blind to the horns sticking out from her head. She approached the culprit, making sure to take her sweet time because the _gall_.  
  
As she drew closer, Harel could see the flash of shock behind her mask, finally catching a glimpse of black horns which hid in the darkness of the evening. A smirk grew on the Herald’s face as she watched the confusion break out.  
  
Yes yes, what am I?  
Am I a rabbit or an Ox?  
Take your pick. I’m curious. _  
  
_“I have lost my precious enchanted ring! Please, please help me find it!” came the woman, disappointing Harel that she didn’t give her any new monikers born from bafflement.  
  
_Be careful, Harel, you have entered a den of wolves_ _who take you for a_ _sheep. Show them you can match their wit and ambition. Be charming, but not_ _gullible_ _, be caustic, but not abusive.  
__Do not hesitate to go for the throat, they will be looking to do the same._ _  
  
_The Qunari recalled Josephine’s words to her before entering the aristocratic arena.  
Be you, be an ass but not an idiot.  
Bring out the wolf.  
Bring out the trickster.  
  


“I see, call the Inquisitor a rabbit, then ask her to find something for you.” the elf feigned a contemplative tone, tapping her finger against her chin, “Maybe you’re hoping to get exposure from people noticing this? Insult me then come out on top to bolster your reputation. Is that your angle, _My Lady._ ”  
  
The woman was no mage, but if she was, she would certainly have ice crackling over her arms.  
Oh, if Josephine was there to see her banter. She’d be so proud of the conversational riposte. Unfortunately, she was...somewhere else. Mythal only knows where she disappeared to.  
  
“I-I know not of what you speak, just please, find my ring!” quick to defend at the accusation; people turned and whispered at the exchange, oddly approving of the call out.  
  
Huh.  
Fucking Nobles.  
  
The Qunari rubbed the back of her neck where the red, starchy fabric touched skin as she scanned the area. Being in the Clan, she overheard many hunting tips and often practised them, honing a skill she found herself using often to spy herbs and materials.  
  
_Oh, this fucking woman.  
  
_A glinting object on top of the fountain, right in plain view of both of them. She made sure the posh twit could see her looking back and forth between the item and her mask.  
If she was making her feel embarrassed, the Orlesian hid it well save for the slight tension in her hands.  
  
Some nobles had come flocking not so subtlety to watch the show the Inquisitor was putting on: _The Social Suicide of Lady What’s her Fuck.  
  
_An unbroken walk between the fountain and the noble, leaning over to snatch the ring and turn back, holding up the jewellery the entire time for the woman to see.  
  
“Is this it?” the Qunari said with a blank face, eyes flitting over to the fountain, sending all the signals.  
  
“Y-yes....thank you, Inquisitor....” said the masked noble, hand outstretched to receive the ring that would cause her social demise.  
  
“Do try to keep a better watch over your things, My Lady.” Harel quipped, before turning away towards the grand staircase with a predatory smile.  
  
The small groups parted to allow the Herald through as she sauntered away like a wolf who got into the Halla pen.  
  
_“What is she?”  
“I didn’t realize elves could breed with those monsters!”  
“Maybe her mother was a __Druffalo_ _and her father, a lonely farmer!”  
“I cannot believe the __Inquisition_ _is led by that....that apostate savage!”  
“Maybe this is all some Qunari Elvish alliance to destabilize humanity! I bet those horns are fake!”  
  
_Curse her big fucking ears.  
_  
_ The skip to her step was quickly halted as she heard the gossip skating from the small crowds. A cold wash came over her body, reminding her of how she was taller than some men, how her horns would catch on her bedhead, how her ears jutted from under her hair when she wore it out.  
  
How the people saw her.  
  
The elf quickened her pace to the stairway, steeling herself from tears. The rumours were certainly nasty.  
So this is what Leliana meant by ‘harden your shell’.  
Good and bad to everything.  
  
She blinked the upset away, trying to form a mask like the Lady. She was in her world now and she better toughen up. Harel could take a mace to the shoulder, but words? Words hurt, festering underneath, eating away the inside like maggots.  
  
_GET BACK HERE YOU DAMNED WOLF_  
_Wolf, wolf, run from here, if you come back, we’ll take your ear  
Dread Wolf take this child. Fen’Harel.  
  
_Words could save lives.  
Words could also destroy them. _  
_  
How did Josephine, that caring, good-natured woman, survive in this harrowing sphere of wicked eyes and wicked hearts for so long?  
  
The elf wandered up the stairs, eyes only moving from the white marble once she reached the last step, her mood diminished considerably.  
  
There’s good and bad to everything.  
  
Rebounding back into her chest like an arrow, her heartbeat and mood picked up as she spied the Lady through the wrought iron gate to the Winter Palace’s interior. A stoic mask replaced with a gracious smile and wave beckoning her forward.  
  
Josephine, wearing the same atrocious, itchy, horrid finery as the rest of the Inquisition.  
And not a hair out of place.  
  
She would ask the Lady.  
She would ask how she dealt with the nobles and try to follow suit.  
If she was going to insert herself into her world, she best learn how to smite with more than just lightning.  
She proved herself today, but how much longer could she continue to use the veneer as a shield against such formidable acid.  
  
It was one thing to laugh at the world but it was another to laugh at a world that was _laughing at her_.  
  
Arms crossed amicably, waiting patiently at the doorway for the elf to arrive.  
  
It was settled.  
  
Harel would learn how to parry with words.  
When the rumours about them would begin to surface like scum bubbling to the top, she must be ready to not lunge from the leash.  
  
To prove that she was not just a ferocious, immature apostate savage.  
  
She must have peace.  
  
She must defend.  
  


* * *

  
She just had to open her mouth.  
  
She just _had_ to talk about Yvette.  
  
And now, her youngest sister bubbled around her, wild with excitement as if summoned.  
  
Maker, _whyyyyyyyy._  
  
Josephine scanned the ballroom and spotted some notable players to keep her eye on, but her target was elsewhere, most likely gathering information on the assassination plot.  
  
“Is she here Josie? Is she really here? Everyone in Antiva is talking about her,” the young woman chirped while holding her sister’s arm, shaking her with every word, “Is it true that she can turn into a dragon and breathe fire?”  
  
What?  
  
“Yvette!” Josephine admonished while prying her sister’s fingers from her arm, “I would appreciate it if you could be more _subtle_.” grey eyes narrowed to the masked face; only an airy chuckle emerged.  
  
“It’s not my fault you’re so stingy, Josie!” the girl said, folding her arms dramatically to pout, “All those letters home and you never say anything about her! Do you not see her everyday? The courts say she a fantastic storyteller,” the pout deepens, “And you have yet to relay ANYTHING interesting!”  
  
Yes, for a good reason.  
  
“Are you all talking about my favourite topic? Me?” came a delighted voice from behind Josephine, “Because I know _a lot_ about that particular subject.”  
  
The white-haired mage strutted towards Yvette who all but exploded with delight.  
  
_I_ _f she could disappear right now that would be fantastic_.  
  
Yvette immediately lunged for the Herald with both arms, latching on to her hand and pulling her close.  
  
“Ok, Ok!” Harel laughed, a grin far too wide plastering her face, “This girl is _definitely_ Antivan! Look at that enthusiasm! You could stand to learn something from her, my Lady” she used her free arm to jab a finger in Yvette’s direction while she giggled wildly.  
  
Maker, _nooooooooo._  
  
Confusion wiped away all joy from the elf’s face as she peered into the girl’s mask, “Wait, are you Antivan? Who are you?”  
  
A clearing of the throat as all eyes looked to Josephine. _  
  
_“Inquisitor, allow me to introduce my youngest sibling, Yvette Gabriella Montilyet,” the Ambassador said with as straight a face as possible.  
  
Unfortunately, Yvette was near-bursting with conviviality, completely bulldozing the introduction. _  
  
_“I _knew_ I’d find you!” Yvette nearly shouted, “Josie tells me NOTHING about you in any of her letters! I hear the most amazing things about you but all she says is that you’re _a talented and_ _charismatic_ _mage_.” the girl likens her accent to Josephine’s while keeping a solid monotone for mockery.  
  
Quite a good impression.  
  
A smug grin overtakes the Qunari’s expression when she hears the diplomat’s description of her.  
  
_Maker, PLEAAAAASE._  
  
And once more, the vivacious little thing starts up again, “Did you know Josie is an artist? She has all of Papa’s skills but she never uses it!” Yvette at first, sounded outraged, then quickly carried a mischievous tone, “But when she started writing us again, I _begged_ her to send me a drawing of that village, Haven or of you since no one in Antiva knows what you look like,” an impish smile to Harel, “And I did not receive a village.”  
  
“YVETTE!” Josephine snaps from the sidelines, a warning blatant in her expression.  
  
It was true, the Qunari elf had wildly differing descriptions of her visage throughout Thedas.  
The picture was supposed to be a harmless addition to her letter; a means of informing.  
Oh, how wrong she was.  
  
“Don’t lie, you fell right into that one,” the Qunari snorted, looking to Yvette, “Apparently I’m her muse. She drew a gorgeous scene with me and a Druffalo but as you said she’s _stingy_! She won’t dare let me see it again!” a chuckle is shared between the two as Yvette squeezes the Inquisitor’s hand.  
  
Harel was so very lucky that the court was currently in her favour or else her pluckiness would have her out on her pointed ear. Yvette was also damned lucky that she was with the Herald or else she too would find herself ejected.  
  
“Yes! Yes! Mama and Papa were so proud that you picked up your charcoal again, Josie! Papa even kept the sketching in his studio!” Yvette quavered as Harel wore the biggest smile on her face.  
  
“I-...You _showed them_.” Josephine had to control herself lest she adds to the scene being made. She wasn’t wearing a mask, thinking that her ‘mask’ would be all she needed.  
  
Little did she know that Harel would make a friend who matched her frenzied whirl of japing.  
  
Deep breaths.  
  
And once more, the two prattling fools were too busy discussing more important matters.  
  
“Your father kept my portrait?” Harel said to the girl, bending her head down slightly so she could speak, “Should I be honoured or terrified?”  
  
A smile just as large as the Qunari’s was beaming from under the mask, “Papa is very, very even-tempered. It is Mama who you need to be wary of,” she is gesticulating wildly despite her grip on the Inquisitor’s hand, “Be wary of Laurien too,” glittering eyes squint from behind the mask, “He has strange tastes.”  
  
The elf raised her eyebrow in Josephine’s direction who was trying _very_ hard not to breathe a deeply frustrated sigh.  
  
“Is there something about me that makes me irresistible to Antivans or is your whole family just odd. It’s the horns, isn’t it?” she pauses to tap her knuckles on the bone, “They’re damn fine racks.” Harel chuckled while Josephine closed her eyes for a second, the polite way of rolling one’s eyes.  
  
Though Harel wanted to say it, she didn't bring up the rapt attention the Ambassador showed her horns earlier.  
Josephine would destroy her if she did.  
  
Yep, it was definitely the horns.  
  
The Inquisitor was about to speak again when she was immediately cut off by the non-stop jabbering of the youngest Montilyet, “Fen! Fen! Oh, may I please call you Fen?" she fluttered, only catching herself mid-sentence, "Josie said your name is Fen’Harel but Fen is so much more adorable!”   
  
“Uh, sure, I guess,” the Herald said, removing her hand from the girl’s grip to move her braid, “Are we doing nicknames now? Should I call you Evie or something?”  
  
The girl looked as if she’d scream but the hard glare of her sister had her smiling broadly instead.  
  
“Is it true that you and Josie are going to elope and run off to the Anderfels to join the Grey Wardens?”  
  
Josephine was going to _kill_ Yvette.  
  
Playing the Game without a mask in a crowded, popular soiree was hard enough without these callow little demons cackling like witches.  
Now she had to deal with _this._  
  
Harel was biting her tongue to try and stifle the laughter that was just _aching_ to come out.  
  
“O-oh of course,” Harel tried to speak through her laughter, “Josie’s tired of dealing with nobles so I’m _whisking_ her away to mediate Darkspawn to death,” a barely contained laugh, “Isn’t t-that right, dearest.”  
  
The damn wolf tried to block her laughter with her hand but it just kept coming out.  
Maker, it was time to do some damage control.  
  
“First of all, where did you hear this drivel,” Josephine interrogated, “And secondly,” her tone became more of a whisper, “How did you know about _us_?”  
  
Truthfully, it hadn’t been much time since the confession.   
She didn’t even send a letter and there was _no way_ she’d let Yvette be the first to know about her dalliance with the mage.  
It wasn't impossible that everyone in Antiva knew, gossip travelled like wildfire despite the timeframe.  
They could very well know.  
How in Andraste did this girl-  
  
“I got you! I KNEW you wouldn’t tell me, so I made it _alllll_ up!” she said all too happily, the Inquisitor’s face becoming red from trying to keep in her giggles, “And why else would you draw her unless you _liiiiiked heeeerrr_.”  
  
The elf cast an intrigued look at the young lady.  
Social dexterity was indeed a Montilyet trait; The Ambassador wielding a rapier of tact while Yvette bludgeoned her way through with similar results.  
For once, the diplomat had met her match, and what a match it was.  
  
Josephine brought a hand to her forehead, making a very Cassandra sound as the pair giggled. They regaled each other with tales as if they were in a tavern and not a high-stakes reception.  
  
The jackasses were getting on far too well.  
  
Maker help them if the Inquisitor ever came to Antiva. She could so easily see the two of them racing side by side on the beach trying to catch seagulls with their bare hands like idiots.  
  
Taking a breath from her laughter, Harel straightened herself, pausing slightly from her conversation with Yvette to wink in her direction.  
  
Yes, it was nice to dream.  
  


* * *

  
How in the fuck did anything get done in Orlais.  
Everything was a damn convoluted mess of backstabbery and ‘he said, she said’ bullshit.  
  
Harel had her head in her hands, elbows on the balcony bannister while she contemplated flinging herself off the veranda. Celene was alive and well thanks to her, back to politicking and blinding people with her absurd show of cleavage. The court, however, quite liked the unconventional Inquisitor. They lapped up the drama, the coy dancing, and of course, Duchess Florianne’s arrest in the Ballroom. They certainly enjoyed the sick show put on for them; completely unaware that the Empire they waltzed under was almost destroyed.  
  
She'd met many nice Orlesians in her life but this lot was a pack of fucking Hyenas and Vultures.  
  
The elf scrubbed her hands through her hair, braid and style be damned; she was tired.  
The ugly coat was unbuttoned enough so she could finally fucking breathe.  
She had half a mind to throw the itchy thing over the balcony along with herself again but, unfortunately, people were still watching her.  
  
People were still talking.  
  
After that display with Yvette, she may have caused more trouble than she was worth; everyone looking, wondering, gossiping.  
  
The Qunari massaged the base of her horns, trying to take away the pressure.  
Why the fuck did she have to go along with Yvette, especially when she knew it would piss Josephine off.  
The lack of self-control was appalling.  
She was supposed to be professional but instead...instead.  
  
“There you are.”  
  
Void take her, it was time to get scolded.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
That didn't sound like a scolding.  
  
The Inquisitor didn’t move, staying still as a statue, eyes examining the tiles.  
She felt a hand on her shoulder, anchoring, warm.  
A heavy sigh from the Qunari elf.  
  
“I have a headache the size of Corypheus’ ambition,” she straightened up, propping her head up in her palms, “So no, not really.”  
  
The hand was unmoving, then it came up to push strands of hair behind her pointed ear.  
  
“Would you like me to get you anything? A drink, perhaps?” Josephine said as she moved closer to the Inquisitor, tone soft and concerned.  
  
Green eyes looked at the various topiaries, then to the diplomat, a bassy chuckle as her reply, “You know me and drinking. Are you certain you want me stumbling around with smallclothes on my head again?”  
  
“Ah, yes, perhaps not then.” she says, amused, “Maybe we can find you an Orlesian Dowager?”  
  
A snort comes from the Qunari as if caught off guard, “Actually I did find one but she wasn’t very interested in taking a tumble,” a smile, unburdened by the events, “Expect a letter from Lady Mantillon.”  
  
There is a noise of approval from the Ambassador as they watch the stars, enjoying the silence weaving with the Ballroom music.  
  
Josephine was the first to speak.  
  
“It was very civil of you to travel with Madame de Fer considering your relationship with her,”  
  
The Qunari looked a little crestfallen, “It's kind of sad. We don’t see eye to eye on many things but I don’t want to be at her throat all day every day,” she puts her hands back in her palm to shield her eyes,” But she loves this court life and keeping her in Skyhold would be like keeping a bird from its nest. Things will probably go back to the sneering glances and underhanded remarks but at least I can be at peace knowing she was happy in her domain, even for just a moment.”  
  
Harel didn’t hate Vivienne, she was just disappointed that she and the Enchantress differed so violently. She could see how she looked in her eyes; proving she was an untamed savage from the wilds of Wycome that just happened to fall into a position of power.  
  
She wanted to be friendly with her inner circle but Vivienne?  
Maybe she was a lost cause.  
She was just too _frigid_.  
  
“You are at least making an attempt to placate your troubled rapport instead of just burning bridges,” Josephine spoke, gold ringed eyes reflecting in the starlight, “That is more than most have the patience for. You give yourself too little credit, Harel.”  
  
The Inquisitor nodded slowly at the words, taking in the counsel given to her. That damn woman always knew what to say.  
Pushing herself off the bannister, she stretched her arms upwards to get some of that tension out.  
  
She could feel those lovely hazel grey eyes on her and tilted her head to catch the stare on her slightly unbuttoned coat. She lowered a hand to the Lady, wolfish grin back in place, settling into a slight bow.  
  
“Care for a dance, Josie?” the Inquisitor said all too smugly.  
  
“I would love to.” the diplomat replied, slipping a hand into the grey one.  
  
Harel kept her close, as they twirled around the balcony, matching steps as quickly as they matched wits. As they danced, the elf began to emit a gentle green glow, like a firefly releasing its dying lights. Josephine could hear the Inquisitor’s heartbeat thrumming under the red cloth, and rested her head on her chest to isolate the sound.  
  
“And here I thought you were going to rip me apart for my scene with Yvette.” Harel jokingly whispered.  
  
“Hush,” was all Josephine said, “You are ruining the moment.”  
  
The diplomat could hear the echoes of a laugh in the Qunari’s chest, undercut by the quick beating of her heart. Anyone with eyes could see the pair dancing on the veranda; there was undoubtedly talk going around from the moment they walked into Halamshiral together.  
  
It didn’t matter though.  
Let them talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Fen'Harel Adaar get your hands away from the Lady's backside you heathen.'
> 
> What you just witnessed was a blooper.
> 
> More to come, as usual


	12. No time for whinging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daring little thieves sneak into the kitchen  
> They make off with the goods  
> But only one reaps the spoils  
> Unfortunately, larceny doesn't pay  
> Especially when you're tricked into the noose
> 
> It's time for roof-time

Leave some dried meat on the floor, that will attract the cat, the cat eats the meat but it’s laced with catnip, the cat starts to play, the kitchen hands and cook will get distracted and _that_ is when to strike.  
  
Harel could see Sera’s eyes glinting from the darkness behind the door to the vault room. She could tell the elf was trying her damnedest not to burst into laughter and ruin the _whole_ thing.  
  
The cat eats the meat.  
Shouldn’t be long now.  
  
The Cook regards the Herald with respect and a little smile; the Qunari elf occasionally ventured to the kitchen late at night when she couldn’t sleep. The shadow she cast may be frightening but she was just a gentle Halla when the sun fell. Soft-spoken and courteous; puttering around to talk to any of the waking residents or play with the cat. The Cook was always up, and so they chatted often about anything and everything, building a friendly rapport.  
  
Now, however, Harel had come for something other than a chat.  
And in the day, the Dread Wolf rises.  
  
The Herald tried to not make her presence exude too much in the space. The cat wandered from her meal to rub against Harel and as much as she would love nothing more than to pick up the little feline, she couldn’t risk it.  
  
Bright yellow eyes looked at her, confused that she wasn’t being showered in affection.  
  
_No no not now you adorable little menace, go back to your meal.  
  
_After one more revolution around the Herald’s legs, the pretty kitty sauntered back to her snack.  
  
Was Josephine allergic to cats?  
She hoped not.  
  
All attention was removed from the Herald as the scullery cat began twisting and hopping; drugged out of her little mind.  
  
Perfect.  
  
While Cook and her kitchen hands were distracted by kitty’s little waltz, the mage snuck past them, grabbing an elegant looking box before scampering off into the Keep’s basement.  
  
Buttered hinges ensured the door didn’t creak as Sera pulled it open just enough for the Qunari to slip through. Using her surprising ability to recall details, Sera pushed the door back ever so slightly, making it look as if the Herald walked out the door to the stables instead.  
  
Both hands pressed against her mouth, the city elf bounced away with Harel before reaching the stairwell. They could not be seen or heard now or else the whole plan would be ruined. Passing the box off to her partner in crime, Harel peeked her head to glance up the stairwell. No extra light which means neither door to the grand hall nor the office was open.  
  
Good.  
Even so, the Inquisitor was the first to ascend, just in case her eyes deceived her. She walked up, muffling her boot heels as much as possible with a gently cast barrier before poking her head through the archway. If she was to be caught by Josephine, it had to be her and not Sera or else she’d _know_ that something devilish was afoot.  
  
Closed.  
  
She signals Sera who quickly hops up the steps in soft shoes to disguise her prancing.  
  
“Using magic is cheatin’. Shove off wit that, aye.” Sera whispered as best as she was able.  
  
A hand quickly clamped down on the rude elf’s mouth as the soft creak of a chair was heard. Josephine was working as usual but she could easily leave at any moment to see about the many, many people scattered throughout Skyhold.  
  
Please, please no.  
  
A few seconds pass and nothing, no slippered steps, no quill scratching.  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Are these hinges done too?” the Qunari elf whispers to her accomplice.  
  
“Get off, you know am good for it.” Sera tries to whisper back.  
  
A breath, then a nod.  
  
The Herald pushes the grand hall door open with a fingertip, letting the wood slide noiselessly to uncover the hall.  
  
Empty except for Varric and Vivienne.  
Thankfully, the latter was too high up to see the mischief and the former would only encourage the plot.  
  
They had 2 minutes of empty hall time to make a break for it towards the tavern.  
Red Jenny the elf pulled some strings that pulled some strings that pulled someone’s pants down that allowed them to have a clear run.  
  
The Qunari had her hand up counting down.  
  
3  
  
They both crouched slightly into a running pose.  
  
2  
  
Harel caught Varric’s eye; he just raised up both hands and turned his head away, smiling.

1  
  
They look to each other then back to the open entrance.

0

Sera was fucking _quick_ but Harel was just as jumpy, both elves leaping forward, swiftly sprinting past the fireplace then to the stairs. As Sera hopped down several steps at a time, Harel took a shortcut, jumping straight down to the right and casting a formidable barrier to cushion her fall.  
  
“ **FRIGGIN** **CHEATER!** ” came a bellow from the staircase as the Qunari took off in another cloud of dust.  
  
Mid-run, Harel turned her head over her shoulder to see a red-faced Red Jenny pelting behind her, box in hand.  
  
“Meet you upstairs!” the Inquisitor roars, drawing the Seeker’s attention from a book, before ignoring the scene. Whatever that rapscallion cross-breed does in her free time is her own business, even if it involves Sera.  
  
_Let the mana carry you  
  
_Feeling the magic in her bones, the plucky thing leaps with the power of a Fade Step, grabbing hold of the lower roof section before hoisting herself up. She can hear the city elf complain loudly from the open window; the heavy thump of wooden stairs as her notifier.  
  
“ **MAGICY SHITE FUCKING ARSEHOLE CHEATING BASTARD!!!”  
  
**She hears Bull’s laughter followed by coughing; swill gone down the wrong way. The Chargers cheer the cursing and Harel couldn’t be any happier that they were still around to see her antics.  
  
Scrubbing a hand through her hair, the Herald steps carefully over some loose roof tiles towards Sera’s hidey-hole. As she drops in, she’s greeted by a flustered Sera now turning the last corner to meet her; eyes wild with excitement and outrage.  
  
Ah, she’ll get over it after they opened the box.  
  
The city elf makes sure to close the door behind them before setting the box down on the very messy table; sweeping off a variety of non-descript items to the floor.  
  
Shifting forward, the Herald reaches a hand out for the box only for it to be slapped away.  
  
“Me first, Elfy,” says Sera, hands slipping the cover off the box, “Cheaters don’t getta have first dibs.”  
  
It’s a cake, for _some poncy noble what’s his_ _frig_ _from the Inquisition to thank him for blah blah blah something something_ _Lady Josie_ _pffbbbttttt_ as Sera had put it. Harel and Sera albeit differing in certain views, had a knack for causing trouble, the foulest mouths in Thedas and of course, a mighty sweet tooth.  
  
It was time to finally relax after the fucking bullshit she had to go through in the desert. After dealing with Varric’s funny friend, Hawke, she had to deal with Hawke’s funny friend Alistair. It was a very sardonic meeting all around which had Bull nearly whack all three jackasses into a wall. The three combined were japing as fast as rabbits fucked despite the horrible _horrible_ circumstances.  
  
Then the Western Approach, the demons, _fucking_ Erimond and his fucking Corypheus bullshit enslaving the fucking Wardens. The bastard mage had tried to control her mark, sending waves of searing pain into her hand. Every nerve, burning viciously enough to make Cole grab his head as if to scream, trying to sift through the feeling.  
  
Yet, through the red glow tearing through her bones, she saw the connection.  
A leash can pull but a leash can also tug back.  
  


She focused her rage, pulling at the mage as if he were another Rift; sending him flying against the wall of the tower.  
  
Blinded by fury, she almost took chase after Erimond _the prick_ but was held back by Compassion.  
  
_“No no,” the Spirit had said, “_ _Being angry at something that’s gone won’t help._ _Kost, Inquisitor, Kost.”_  
  
She recalled herself, reminded herself and breathed a deep breath before coating her arms in flame. She was too angry for lightning. Too angry at the abuse.  
  
Blood _fucking_ magic.  
  
The Qunari elf reemerged from her mind, watching as Sera yanked a fistful of cake from the box, swallowing it within the second.  
She didn’t feel as peckish now, knowing that there was a massive fuck-off army of demons gathering in Adamant. Knowing that she’d have to storm the Keep, knowing that there’d be monsters scraping at her mind and soul.  
  
Nausea.  
  
“Oye, you’re doin’ that thing again,” Sera said through a mouthful of cake, “that thinky business where your eyes look like _that thing’s_.”  
  
Sera didn’t like Cole very much.  
She made sure the Herald knew as often as possible.  
  
The city elf gulped down her cake loudly before cleaning her face with her sleeve, “You alright, Elfy?”, she pushes the box towards the Qunari, “Prissy cake?”  
  
Harel scoops a dollop of frosting into her mouth with her finger and swallows, the ice in her belly making it too hard to enjoy, much less eat any more. Sera catches the look in her eye and understands. They may not be on the roof specifically, but it was roof time.  
  
With cake instead of cookies.  
She’d told her about Lady Emmald that day.  
The Herald had told her about Avrielle and her Clan.  
Sometimes you’re betrayed by the family you adopt; sometimes you’re betrayed by the family of your blood.  
  
Nothing to do but move forward, live every day as brightly and vivaciously as one can before their candle blew out.  
  
Harel moved her leg up higher on the makeshift bed to rest her arm on, “Why Elfy?”, she turns green eyes to the skittish Jenny, “I have horns and no face tattoos. So why?”  
  
Sera was halfway through a bite of cake before sputtering debris on her table, “Becoz you’re elfy. You do elfy shite like an elfy elf would. Plus you an Solas,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m surprised you’re not bendin’ him over instead of Madam Ruffled Undies.”  
  
“Ruffled-” the Qunari stops herself for a moment before the conversation can be derailed, “Sera, I know I can be a bit-”  
  
“Very.” the city elf cuts her off, reaching for more cake.  
  
“I know I can be _very_ elfy, but I promise you,” a smile is back, albeit tired, “The elfiest thing about me is my face, my ears, the way I can’t stop molesting Elfroot and my face, _again_.”  
  
At the sound of _my face,_ Sera chortles like a piglet, most likely thinking up some kind of joke.  
  
“So you don’t like, pray to the old scary elfy Gods?”, said Sera, who looked oddly intrigued, “You go speaking that weirdo talk to all the other droopy eared prats and kneeling at elfy graves and cryin’ when you see a tree and shite but you _don’t_ do the whole Elgarararrarrarrnarananan worshipy thing?”  
  
That’s one way to put it.  
  
“No, no, I don’t worship any of the _old scary elfy Gods_ ,” Harel said, brushing her hair from her eyes, “I cut that shit out when I was really young; being hailed as an evil trickster God incarnate helps to make you despise them. I just pay my respects, keep the culture alive but it stops there. I only blaspheme now, fun curses that you’d love I’m sure.”  
  
“OOOOO LEMME HEAR ‘EM” shouts the city elf, drumming her frosted hands on her legs.  
  
The Qunari snorts, “Alright alright. Calm down.” eyes wander to catch thoughts, “Let’s see, we have-”  
  
A flash of gold descending Skyhold’s steps caught her attention.  
  
Sylaise’s heaving bosom, it was Josephine and she walked like someone just stole something important.  
  
Like a cake.  
  
Harel was now, quite happy she wasn’t able to fill her stomach considering she would have projectile vomited at the sight of their Ambassador.  
  
She watched the Antivan carve her warpath to the tavern and noticed yet another detail.  
  
The Lady was _soaked_.  
  
“Sera, what the **fuck** did you do,” she barked at the elf with more than a little fear.  
  
The city elf was not disturbed, not one jot. She was in the middle of licking her hands clean of frosting before tilting her head to see the approaching doom.  
  
“Ooooooooh,” she said as if recalling something, “So remember when we did those pranks on everyone but you wouldn’t let me touch your oh so prim and proper missus?”  
  
The Qunari’s eyes narrowed dangerously.  
  
“Welllllll I knew you’d cheat for our lil’ run, yea, so I talked to a friend who knew a friend who knew how to make these water bomb thingys. Puttem in somethin’ like a drawer, open the drawer and BOOM! You’re soaked down to your knickers.” she grins widely, “that’s what you get for cheatin’, Elfy. The walloping your gettin’ will have you in the dog house for _weeks!_ Perfectly timed an everythin’.”  
  
Harel was more than a little peeved that the damn brat would go against her wishes to terrorize her paramour. That and implicate her in such a devious little plot disguised as roof-time. The girl was sharper than she let on.  
  
Then again.  
  
Maybe not.  
  
“Oh, I see, alright,” the Inquisitor said with a wicked smile, “So you’re telling me that Josie’s coming to tell off someone who loves pranks and stole a cake,” the elf waves her hand over her accomplice, “someone who’s also covered from head to toe in _frosting_.”  
  
Sera tilts her head, opening her mouth as if to speak before realizing _everything_.

  
“You friggin pissbag **bastard**!” Sera lunged, attempting to hold the Inquisitor down before she can get up.  
  
Unfortunately for Sera, she had magic.  
  
The stomping of a beautiful, angry woman could be heard outside the door, very, _very_ close.  
  
“Sera, I’m named after Fen’Harel,” she cackled, “A notable _**trickster**_ _ **God.**_ ”  
  
Focusing her mana, the Qunari turned tail to Fade Step through the window before grabbing onto the roof ledge of Sera’s small room and pulling herself up. She would rather not take any chances for Josephine to see her. Carefully, she made her way up the angled roof to lean on a small, gabled outcropping.  
  
The most venomous, toxic hisses she hoped to never encounter came trickling from Sera’s window. The Ambassador dare not shout lest all of Skyhold heard her reprimanding the elf. Somehow, this quiet, biting rage was far, far more tear-inducing than any shouting could invoke.  
  
Harel almost felt as if she would start to cry by proxy, hearing the sharp, strictness of the Antivan’s words.  
  
The Inquisitor gently moved from the gable to shift into a closer position, not too close though. Green eyes looked down from the roof to catch a drenched, golden lady halfway out the window, scanning for the ‘supposed’ partner in crime.  
  
Nothing.  
  
And back to the muffled reprimanding.  
  
The Herald laid back on the roof of the Herald’s Rest, arms under her head, horns just barely scraping the tiles.  
Maybe the Gods were taking pity on her.  
Maybe the stress taking away her sweet delights was a good thing.  
  
Maybe Sera was right about all this _‘_ no time for whinging’ talk.  
  
Then again, Sera was probably going to be the whinging one after Josie was done. Harel made a mental note to keep an eye on everything she owned as she knew the Jenny would be looking for swift and brutal payback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some banter, Sera talks about trying to steal a cake that Lady oh so prim has to give a nobleman
> 
> So I branched off of that.
> 
> Thanks for reading. More to come.
> 
> hopefully soon


	13. Keep Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run away  
> Run far away  
> but know that everything always comes back
> 
> All you can do is hope for the rain to be strong  
> and rot away this knot of pain
> 
> It's easier to chase away nightmares when you are guarded by a wolf

The civilians of Skyhold have rumours flitting amongst them like ideas caught in a spider web. Legends and cryptids pace the stone and none are more prevalent than the Wandering Wraith of Skyhold. In the night, just past the 2nd hour, is a woman who drifts through the hallways of the Keep. Like a phantom rising from the old bones rattling on the mountaintop, she stalks the dimly lit archways, some say she is searching for blood. Others say revenge. And the rest speak of a lover or mother who searches for their other half. White nightdress catching the starlight, sometimes she walks, sometimes she runs but pray you are not near when she breaks into a sprint.  
  
Pray.  
_  
_ There was grass under her feet, the wind ripping into her skin. The moon too large, too bright. The ghost walked aimlessly at first around the garden, then sat down amidst the undergrowth. Like a tapping against her head, her name on the tip of her tongue before the wind swept the thoughts away.  
  
Why was she here?  
Why was she running?  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” came a voice from the stone gazebo, “I thought....”  
  
The figure crept closer, though she could not move as if her mind weighed heavy on her limbs.  
  
“I thought if I made you forget, it would be better...”  
  
Grey eyes looked up at the figure as he stood in a silhouette in front of the moon.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Josephine.” Cole whispered, his voice distraught.  
  
Everything connected as if waking from a dream, she remembered who she was, where she was and who she spoke to.  
  
“Cole...” the Ambassador said, voice rough from sleep, “What happened?”  
  
She could see his frown clearly, even in the dark of the night. Like a shadow folding in on itself, he crouched to her eye-level, looking over her disturbed eyes and long sleep mussed hair.  
  
“You were having that dream again,” he said slowly, “Running, screaming, bleeding. I reach for the man but the demon is quick. He bursts on my shoulder, sticky, hot; organs on my shoes, a piece of his heart sliding from my body. The young boy I shouted to didn't hear me. His head rolls uselessly on the snow; face frozen in fear still calling out to his father. Was it blood or tears?” large blue eyes look mournfully to her, “I made you forget but the tangle was like a stone. You have to wait for the rain to break it open, wear it away.”  
  
She brings a hand to her heart as it began racing, the memories flooding back like high tide. At first, her breath quickened, then her lungs compressed, making it hard to get air in. The Shadow pressed his lips together in frustration, upset he couldn’t just wash it away, upset he couldn’t just make her happy.  
  
How?  
  
Plucking, thinking, he reaches for her hand, though his are cold from his time outside, hers are warm like a hearth that keeps burning.  
  
“You will be fine.” he says, consulting himself, knowing it’s what Harel would say.  
  
Halting.  
  
The Lady takes a deep breath as she brings herself out, noticing the grip of the boy’s hand on hers, she places her other hand to cover his.  
  
“Thank you. Thank you so much Cole.” she whispers as the breeze blows through her hair, a caress of cold that makes her think.  
  
“I’ll get her.”  
  
She hears him, a disembodied voice, gone before she could see its origin.  
  
Refusing to move, Josephine huddles in on herself, drawing her body inwards, closing her eyes to try and banish the memories. A flood breaks through and she can’t hear or see. She loses herself in the tide, tears falling before she can catch them.  
  
Afraid of ghosts that no longer exist, afraid of an event that has long since passed, afraid of things that have yet to come, she chokes on wave after wave of despair.  
  
Until arms, strong and grey squeeze her tightly, body unlatching her curled form, straightening her, till she feels the familiar pressure against her.  
  
“Kost, Kadan, Kost. Don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.”  
  
The voice is like home, guiding her back like the lanterns on the promenade as Yvette throws loaves of bread to the seagulls. She nearly laughs, but chokes on her tears, sobbing into the shoulder offered to her.  
A silently crying Qunari elf staring up at the Breach comes to mind.  
And now the mirror reflects back to her.  
Burrowing further into the shoulder she breathes in the scent of Arbor Blessing and Elfroot, grounding, real, here.  
  
She’s tired, mentally exhausted and sleep-deprived from the endless nights of fitful rest. Maker only knows what she did to deserve the nightmares consistent presence. It’s driving her near mad with fear that isn’t there.  
  
Humming.  
  
The elf hums into the wild tangle of black hair, a song from the bridge she remembers like a dream.  
  
Suledin.  
  
Her tears begin to stem as she finds herself drifting into the song, arms wrapped around the Qunari’s neck loosening. She’s sinking into herself, but not like those times where she disappears and jolts back. Sinking, like into a warm pool that whispers in a twist of language; a speech born of elves and horns. If she were a mage, the Fade would call her.  
  
And funnily enough, with Harel there, it may as well be calling.  
  


* * *

  
She brushes the dirt from her nightdress and moves her hair so she may sleep peacefully. Harel places a hand on Josephine’s shoulder as she feels the gentle breaths taken in her dreams. The Qunari moves away to place another log on the fire, stepping quietly so as not to disturb. She funnels just a bit of magic to strengthen the flame.  
  
It would not do to have the Lady shivering in her sleep.  
  
She turns her head back often as she deals with the hearth; unwilling to take her eyes off Josephine for even a moment lest she begins shaking with night terrors.  
  
She will keep vigil.  
  
Mussing her hair, she stretches her arms over her head, a simple cotton shirt and pants as her clothes.  
The Herald all but flops onto the fainting couch, fully intent on giving Josephine her space. Their relationship was still new, and her paramour was quite prudish. Pushing boundaries was not the way to go despite Harel’s hasty nature.  
  
Propping her head against the armrest, she turned her eyes to the Lady as she slept soundly.  
Harel however, couldn’t.  
The tension in her body still taut as if daring the nightmares to come back. She would be ready, she couldn’t be caught off guard.  
  
A vision of grey eyes, red with tears, folded in fetal position in the garden flashed past.  
No.  
She would be there this time.  
  
A cord of green snakes it way across the room, gently wrapping around Josephine.  
If she woke, she would know.  
If she shook, she would be there.  
  
She would take no chances.  
  


* * *

  
It was harder to breathe, air slowing but not to a worrying amount. Eyes cracking open, she saw her world was black. Then she blinked, clearing her vision.  
  
It was black hair.  
Harel found herself under the little diplomat, chin sitting atop her head as black hair fanned out.  
  
So much for respecting boundaries.  
So much for the prudish partner.  
  
Grey fingers brushed the wavy hair to one side, then combed through gently lest she catches on a tangle.  
Her breathing was steady, normal, quiet.  
Good.  
Harel’s other arm had been draped over Josephine, gripping her waist with care so she did not fall.  
  
She looked out the balcony door to see darkness still heavy on the world.  
  
It was all so peaceful, so perfect.  
  
So much so that she looked around with narrowed eyes, mind focusing, telling her she was there.  
Demons were tricky, they loved using new tactics to try to get her.  
But to trick a trickster is no easy feat.  
  
Her mind called Desire’s name but she heard no answer.  
  
A small groan, but far from awake, like a reflex in her sleep.  
No, she was certainly not dreaming.  
Her heart picked up pace as the Antivan snuggled deeper into her body, ear pressed to her chest as if she were listening for her heartbeat.  
  
Harel allowed herself to close her eyes and listen to the soft breathing, hoping that Josephine would forget to awaken early and sleep in.  
Asala-Taar was a sickness of the mind and legitimate sleep was but a temporary balm to its effect.  
The Inquisitor hoped she could help, hoped her presence would help loosen the knot.  
Her pretty little Peacekeeper deserved no less.  
  


* * *

  
_I sit by the Halla pen, Foamy and Hutch bend their heads to nuzzle my face. Their breath is warm and Hutch starts to lick me. He knows I removed the stone from his hoof and he knows I love him. It’s weird, having a legitimate role in the Clan. Ellana teaches me how to stay away from demons and tells me stories of the Elvhen.  
I love the stories.  
I am her Second when I was supposed to be dead.  
  
It’s been a long time since then, Ellana is kind but not very loving, she sings to me and guides me but doesn’t touch me unless I’m ill or hurt or being taught. Even then, she still looks uncomfortable like my skin burns with acid. Her words are often full of meaning but there's no emotion in them.  
  
But when she sings, I feel loved.  
  
I’m still grateful.  
She cares.  
In her own way, she cares.  
  
Foamy takes to nibbling my ear, I bend my head to get away but she grabs my pigtail instead, pulling gently.  
  
I also herd the Halla, like Avrielle.  
My talent with the animals has seen the Apprentice out of a role.  
He hates me even more now.  
Ellana says to ignore them.  
When she becomes Keeper, I will be her First.  
  
She will make sure I'm controlled.  
  
But I don’t like being here.  
If I become First, then I’ll one day become the Keeper.  
And they would never accept me.  
  
How long does Ellana think she can do this?  
  
I sit up straight.  
Hutch starts to speak to me and I see a cut on his nose.  
He’s a glutton_ _for trouble. He thinks he can match the Alpha Stag but he’s always wrong.  
I put my hand to his snout, focusing the path of my magic.  
Loving, caring, healing.  
Ellana wants me to be more than a wolf.  
She sees potential in me.  
She said Avrielle was always kind to everyone and everything.  
She sees the same within me.  
  
I know Ellana is my aunt.  
She thinks I didn’t hear her arguing with Keeper Deshanna so long ago; she doesn’t hate me anymore because she saw me running away, a scared child and not a wolf.  
  
She was bitter because of Avrielle and without my father to blame, I was to blame.  
  
But then she saw reason.  
  
Why hate me when she could love the last piece of Avrielle left.  
  
Hutch licks my palm, thanking me.  
  
Why couldn’t people be more like Halla?  
  
Someone’s talking, they’re angry. I see humans come from the woods; I stand in case I’m needed to carry something.  
Then I see him.  
A hulking giant who makes me back into the posts of the pen.  
What was he?!  
His arms were held up high as the hunters held their bows to him.  
  
A giant man hated by the Clan?  
To be so vicious towards the shemlen’s guard could only mean he was my father!  
  
Was he my father?  
  
No, no the Clan says my father had horns.  
This man was just large and grey.  
  
He sees me and I freeze up.  
There’s a look on his face, like he’s surprised, in fact, the whole Clan looks at me.  
  
I look to the burnt spot near to my feet.  
I’ve let go another bolt of lightning.  
They hate it when I do that; it means a lack of control, an entryway for demons, an excuse for shems and Templars to tear up the Clan.  
  
The big man’s eyes are kind when he looks at me; the softest look I’ve ever gotten and it makes me feel weird.  
I don’t like being pitied.  
  
He starts to talk to the Keeper, then points to me.  
I feel ice in my belly.  
He wants to do to me what my father did to Avrielle.  
The Keeper looks at me, then to Ellana who nods her head.  
  
__**Ellana please, please don’t let him take me.**_ _  
  
I back up against the pens as he walks towards me, the hunter's bows still drawn on the man. He’s huge, tall as a tree, taller than anything I’ve ever seen!!!  
  
He kneels as much as he’s able but still towers over me.  
  
“You are a spellcaster?” he asks, voice far softer and gentler than he appears.  
  
I nod.  
  
“What schools have you been taught?”  
  
“Storm and Spirit,” I say quietly, “I'm the Clan healer,” I barely move my mouth, my head tilted down,_ “ _I study Vir Atish’an. The Way of Peace.”  
  
He has an odd look on his face as if I’ve surprised him.  
As if he weren't expecting a wolf to follow such a merciful path.  
  
He tries to lower himself more. I look into his eyes, they’re honest and kind. He holds out his hand and I see a small spark run off his finger.  
  
She’va dhal! He knows magic! But where is his staff?!  
  
Is he like me?  
A staffless?  
  
“Are you happy here, Imekari?”  
  
Imekari?  
Does he mean me?  
He must mean me.  
I look past him, at the Keeper and the Clan. They look at us like they look at the shemlen who skirt the borders of Wycome.  
I see fear and hate in their eyes.  
  
I shake my head.  
  
His hand comes up slowly and I watch him as a dog does to an unknown person. He puts his palm_ _on my head and brushes back my hair.  
I am worried.  
He blocks the view of the Clan with his huge body.  
He scares me.  
But I can feel his kindness as easily as I feel my magic.  
And he is a spellcaster.  
  
We are both hated.  
  
He is like me.  
  
“Would you come with me, Imekari? I will not harm you.” his words are like water to a flame,_ “ _If I ever do, then fight me, draw my blood as it would be deserved.”  
  
I hear tales of my father, the horned beast who bided his time at night to strike like a wolf on wounded prey.  
This man, he is the opposite of such tales.  
He lacks horns and malice.  
  
“What do they call you, Imekari?” he asks as he taps a finger to my horn.  
  
“Fen’Harel, it means-”  
  
“Dread Wolf.” he finishes, anguish creasing his gentle brow, “It is unkind. I know many tales but to name a child such?” he shakes his head.  
  
I am curious.  
  
“What's your name?” I ask slowly.  
  
The big man pats my head, a smile returning to his face, “My kith call me Taashath. My home once called me Ashkaari.”  
  
I am confused. Which was it?  
  
“Taashath.” he sounds out for me.  
  
“Taashath.” I repeat.  
  
He smiles and removes his hand as he stands, his shadow long and stretching back impossibly far. He moves towards the sun like a bird yet remains to the ground.  
  
Gentle and noble.  
Like a Halla.  
  
_

* * *

  
Harel opens her eyes but her vision is blurred by sleep once again. She breathes deeply and notices a lack of pressure which causes her to scramble upwards and look around in a panic.  
  
“I am fine, Harel.” she hears in the room.  
  
The Qunari breathes a sigh of relief as she looks at the woman at her desk. She’s taken up a quill and looks as if she’s been writing for a while.  
  
Agh, this damn workaholic.  
  
Josephine’s hair is unbound, swept to the side so it doesn’t interfere with her work or catch the candle flame. Grey eyes move up only briefly to look at the Inquisitor; she wishes she were closer to see if the gold rings were shining in the candlelight. She looks tired, but less so now, there’s a vibrance about her that she hadn’t seen since the Breach closed.  
  
It was as if a piece of herself was reforming, painfully slow, but rebuilding.  
  
The elf sat up on the couch rotating her arms and cricking her neck. Sleeping on a mildly-uncomfortable couch with barely a wink caught was not really the best way to start one’s day.  
  
She looked back at the Ambassador, a small smile on her lips as she plucked word after word from thin air.  
  
Neck pain be damned, this was one fucking _fine_ way to wake up.  
  
The Qunari shifted herself off the couch, padding her way to Josephine while looking out the window.  
  
Dawn.  
  
Well, at least they slept, even if it wasn’t a huge amount.  
  
Setting down her pen, the diplomat regarded Harel with a questioning look.  
Brow furrowed again.  
She could see the cogs turning.  
Not yet, just relax.  
  
The Qunari braced a hand on the table as she leant down to steal a kiss from the woman who seemed to drop all words before they started. A hand tangled into white hair, deepening the kiss before skating up to scrape against her horns.  
  
Then the brush of a tongue against her lips.  
Ok, maybe Josephine wasn’t as prudish as she first thought.  
  
She was about to comment but opening her mouth just allowed that sharp little mediating tongue to slip in.  
  
FORGET THE _GALL  
  
_THE _AUDACITY  
  
_Pushing a hand against the Lady’s chest, she silently made it known that she would like to breathe.  
It was nice and all, the Orlesian kiss, but she liked to remain alive and not succumb to the kiss of death.  
Literally.  
A yelp, high and surprised came resounding in her ear.  
She felt herself disengage entirely from Josephine as if she burned her.  
Shocked was more like it.  
  
It wasn’t a bad shock, just a little buzz.  
Fire was rage.  
Ice was fear.  
Lightning was excitement or surprise.  
  
And her heart was certainly racing in a good way.  
  
“Ah,” the Ambassador said after realizing just what she’d done, “I-i....how very bold of me. I am so-”  
  
“If you say sorry, I will shock you on purpose,” Harel grinned as she brushed the hair from Josephine’s face, “Never apologize for something as _spicy_ as that.”  
  
She feels a small tap against her arm and hears the sweet laugh she’s craved since returning from the Western Approach.  
  
“Sometimes the things you say are so...” the Lady starts but she can’t finish her sentence, a blush cuts her off mid-way.  
  
Equal parts prudish and Antivan; all starlight, propriety and poetry until she's eager to tongue someone.  
  
Harel presses a kiss to the blushing forehead and murmurs into her hair, “You had a question?”  
  
She mulls over thoughts in her head before lacing her arms around the Qunari’s midsection, pulling herself to rest a head on her lower abdomen.  
  
“I wanted to thank you for helping me last night.” she muttered, “You didn’t have to-”  
  
“Woman, you drive me insane sometimes,” Harel snorted, “I would never let you suffer alone like that. Toss the niceties in the trash for once,” the elf passes a hand under the diplomat’s jaw, brushing a thumb against her cheek, “I adore you too much to just let you wilt away.”  
  
And she’s blushing even harder now.  
Maker, would this woman _ever_ stop flirting?  
Not that she minded.  
Oh, not at all.  
  
“Mmmm,” the Antivan snuggled back into the cotton shirt, “I had an odd dream.” she feels stomach muscles tense at the mention, “Not a nightmare, just a dream.”  
  
A hand comes down to stroke the long black hair, “And did you dream of a certain Qunari elf on a bed of roses waiting all seductive-like for you to ravish?”  
  
Harel feels a puff of air against her stomach and the tightening of the arms.  
  
“Funny you say that as I did indeed dream of a Qunari elf,” she says, but cuts Harel off before she can jape, “a Qunari elf who tended two Halla named Foamy and Hutch.”  
  
The hand stopped stroking and Josephine worries she’s done something wrong.  
The whole room has changed from dreamy silence to painfully lucid.  
She shouldn’t have said anything.  
She should have just sh-  
  
“That’s amazing!!!” the diplomat heard reverberating in the Qunari’s abdomen before she’s quickly unlatched, “You saw that too?! You saw my dreams?! How!? HOW?!” she’s shaking Josephine by the shoulders now, “Are you a mage? No,nonono, that’s impossible, well improbable maybe, but....no you can’t be.”  
  
The Antivan is bemused at the spectacle, green eyes wide and questioning, smile wide and expression all too enthused.  
But there’s also a tenderness to it.  
A will to share that branches out to her instead of just the intense friendliness she gives to anyone willing to take.  
It grips her by the heart and squeezes, a dull ache emanating from her chest as the Herald jabbers with excitement.  
  
“Did it truly happen?” Josephine asks through the barrage of questions, “That dream. Was it a memory?”  
  
The question rattles around in the mage’s head for a moment before spilling out as a loving, indulgent smile, a smile Josephine doubts anyone but her has ever seen.  
  
“Yes,” she nods, eyes shining bright as the Fade, “I don’t know how you saw it, but I’m so happy you did. That was how I met Taashath.”  
  
Grey hands cradle her face and thumbs run along her cheeks; expression completely smitten.  
  
Birds begin to flock to the bannister as light pours in, Josephine brings her hands up to the ones on her face.  
A word that dare not speak its name, heavy on both tongues, tying them in knots.  
  
It was a fine way to greet the day.  
  


* * *

The legend began to die down as the days went forward. Less of Skyhold’s nightly residents spied the haunting of the Wraith. In fact, it seemed as though she disappeared entirely; vanishing as if she was simply an illusion dispelled.  
  
Maybe she was banished back to the Fade?  
Maybe she found what she was looking for?

  
Varric could attest to how tales often held the truth while being laden with lies.  
The phantom was undeniably with the Fade and she did indeed find what she was looking for.  
  
For many nights, The Wraith lay tangled in sheets and legs, a warm body pressed against her back, arms holding her tightly like chains on a gate. She could not float away when anchored to the earth by a Fadewalker.  
  


Soft breathing often turned short and fearful, twisting against the arms holding her, terror sending her legs kicking outwards as if to run, as if to wrench herself free. Whimpering turning to screaming fading to breathless rasps. Tears would fall in spades, soaking into the sheets and into grey hands which tried to catch them.  
  


Even as she thrashed, there would be kindly whispers roused from the movement, soft and gentle to guide her back to peace. Words heavy with love against her ear even through the screams, words pulling her back from wherever she found herself treading.  
  
The kicking was always the first to stop, knowing that where the sleepy mumbling came was a place no harm could thrive. Next was her fists, balled tightly enough to score crescents into her palms; relaxing as each second passed. Next was the screaming, the panting, the gasping, all melting away into slow, easy breaths. The tears would dry as each knot would go undone.  
  


Finally, she’d drift away, as if her rest were more peaceful than a dead man’s.  
  


It was upsetting to know that Josephine spent so long on her own, building fear in her body till it brought her to flee. The Inquisitor had heard the stories of the Wandering Wraith, and though she traipsed around in the night, she never once caught a glimpse of the supposed ghost. She still looked, wondering, waiting.  
  
That is, until the garden.  
  
Once the Lady had slipped into slumber, she carried her to her quarters, careful to not jostle Josephine as she ascended the stairs. Green eyes stayed stuck to the tear-streaked face. Without the kohl lining, she saw just how tired she looked; red-rimmed and darkened bags heavy underneath her eyes.  
  
It broke Harel’s fucking heart.  
How long did she think she could hide it?  
How long was she going to continue trying to hide it?  
  
The next day, Harel had visited the Ambassador’s office with an offer; a serious expression weighting her words.  
  
Should she feel uneasy, should it happen again, say the word.  
  
_“_ _Let me know if you can’t sleep. Please,” she lift_ _ed_ _an ink-stained hand to her lips, a gentle kiss,_ _eyes shining with heartache_ _“Please..._ _let me know how I can help you, Kadan._ _”_  
  


It had taken an entire day of deliberation for Josephine to come up with a decision; thoughts of propriety and not wanting to be a bother or encroach on the elf’s personal space swirling in her mind. Harel was so eager in this budding relationship, so full of adoration.  
  
She didn’t want to seem as if she were taking advantage of the starry-eyed elf’s kindness.  
  
However, once the night sat upon the world, she looked to the dimming fireplace. The room seemed to shrink as shadows painted the walls, crawling in further towards her desk.  
  
In the dying embers she saw the flash of a Rage Demon’s eyes, blood-soaked and furious before it tore open the belly of a fleeing soldier; pulling her in, pulling her in, **pulling her in**.  
  
_The_ _second_ _trebuchet had launched. Dragging her gore-soaked body outside the gates, she stood confused_ _and terrified_ _. The world around her blended together, ears ringing as people lay slain or about to be killed. Each breath strained, fearing she’d empty her stomach right there. The tents were burning, a wall of flame blocking her path. Couldn’t go that way. Straight ahead towards the lake...a child’s arm holding onto another hand..._ _both_ _severed...  
  
__**Maker**_ _  
  
She took off to the left, squeezing her eyes shut, running as fast as she could, tears streaming, breath halting. The remains of Harel’s mount lay scattered in the makeshift stable. __  
  
A smile, bright and happy, laughter like rain in the __heated madness_ _of her soul.  
  
She could be dead.  
  
No, no, __no._ _  
  
She looks into the blacksmith’s area, hoping to find a survivor, someone, __anyone.  
__  
She sees no one at first, then her vision clears.  
  
The Apprentice, laying under a pile of stones, head __broken_ _open, eyes popped and crushed like berrie_ _s underfoot._ _  
  
Nausea, fast and strong, rebounding in her body as her legs began to shake.  
__She nearly falls, a scream on her lips but there’s no strength in her throat._ _  
_

_Anywhere but here, anywhere but here.  
  
Barely open_ _ed_ _eyes,_ _afraid of what she’ll see_ _next_ _,_ _r_ _unning_ _past_ _everything till footsteps clattered against stone, losing her balance sending her sprawling against the hard surface._ _S_ _he push_ _es_ _herself up, arms trembling, bruises forming on dark skin._ _She crawls at first, pulling herself forward with her arms as her legs have no ability to move; paralyzed by fear._ _She h_ _olds_ _herself still as the screaming_ _grows louder_ _, the sounds of fire and flesh ripping_ _bursting from the village_ _._ _  
  
__**MAKER, MAKE IT STOP!!!  
**__**PLEASE!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!**_ _  
  
__Hands over her ears, covering the sound, cowering.  
  
Then it’s blank._ _  
_  
She got up from her desk, ignoring the world around her, ignoring the sound her shoes made on the floor as she went up the stairs. Ignoring the sound her hand made as it rattled against the Inquisitor’s door.  
  
Cotton nightclothes and Arbor Blessing, hair messy and falling everywhere. A smile, worried yet relieved. The warmth of the room seeping out through the door, pulling her in but not into her mind this time.  
  
_“You will be fine.” she had said, an arm folding around Josephine’s neck to pull her into an embrace,_ _a hand brushing through her hair,_ _a kiss on her cheek,_ _“I promise, you will be fine.”_  
  
She always left before the Inquisitor awoke. If she didn’t leave before the sun rose, someone would catch her; gossip was sure to explode over Skyhold.  
  
Gossip was always about but she knew how it affected Harel.  
  
She’d seen the way the Qunari looked when a hateful word or two passed by her ears. A smile that would stay for all to see, but once she turned the corner, a discouraged look that dare not show in the sunlight.  
  
She didn’t want to add to the endless problems Harel faced. Josephine knew just how conniving and vicious the twisted world of hearsay was. She was all too aware of how soft their leader’s heart was and how easy it was to harm despite the rumours of her being a blasphemous hyena.  
  


Even as she collected herself to leave, she’d stay just a second longer to see the peaceful Halla sleeping; face sideways against the pillow as horns turned upwards so as not to catch the bedhead.

She was quite a heavy sleeper despite her antsy nature.  
Not even the door closing woke her from the Fade.  
  


* * *

  
" _When she works, the thoughts get pushed under so she plucks the pages earlier and later than anyone ever c_ _ould_ _; words to help build a wall. But walls can crumble. Sh_ _e’s_ _always_ _been_ _good at diving into work, but now it’s because she needs to, for many reasons that fight for her attention."  
_

Though she never asked, Cole would try to help Harel, feeling the complex worry that spun in her soul. He would try to help her understand what went on in Josephine’s restless mind. She often turned him down but sometimes, sometimes the thoughts were so _strong_ that he couldn’t stop himself.  
  
She works because she must but also because she **must.  
  
**He had confessed to Harel that he made her forget.  
He had seen her wandering, seen her running, turning, staring and the pain made him choke.  
He waved a hand as he approached her, the pain fading away immediately.  
But some types of pain dig into the soul and latches on.  
As she forgot the trauma, she forgot herself.  
Walking to the garden, an unknown ghost until she heard her name again.  
  
" _Never again, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again."  
  
_If she were anyone else, she would have been furious. Instead, she took a breath, understanding that this was what Cole thought was best and thankfully, Josie remembered who she was. She could not fault Compassion for trying to be compassionate. In the Fade, where everything is an emotion twisting in the green smoke and stone, is where Compassion learned himself. He must learn the permanence and physicality of this world. She wanted him to remain the Cole she cherished but in order to do that, she must help mould him with her own two hands. All he wanted to do was help but he had to learn helping was a process, not an effect.  
  
To overcome pain, one must remember pain.  
  
Slowly.  
Everything had to be done with care.  
  
A careful hand to guide the boy, a careful voice to banish the nightmares.  
  


* * *

The Baron had taken to alerting Leliana whenever _she_ appeared in the tower. Harel had no idea her bird was so vigilant which made startling her so much more fun. With her fear of heights already made real by the location of the Rookery, Leliana made sure to always stand where the elf least expected.  
She had to keep herself from cracking under the stress somehow.  
The cocky little miscreant was always a fine source of entertainment, especially when such jokes were at her own expense.  
  
The Mistress bid her bird away while she waited for the slow steps to grow louder. Night had long since fallen on the Keep but she was certain the Qunari would not rest till a certain Antivan was finished working.  
  
Blue eyes narrowed at the thought, a grimace set in place.  
The less she thought about what Josie and the Herald did at night, the better for her mental health.  
  
Finally, the Inquisitor hopped up the stairs, before hugging closely to the wall, looking in every possible direction so that she wouldn’t be taken by surprise.  
  
A smirk played on Leliana’s lips.  
What a fun game of cat and mouse indeed.  
  
“What could you possibly need from me at this hour?”  
  
The elf looked around, hearing a voice with no origin. She was on high alert now, green eyes peering in every which direction.  
  
But she may as well be blind; Leliana’s bard training made her unseen to anyone, anywhere whenever she liked.  
  
As the Inquisitor turned her head away from the Spymistress, she made herself known, leaping down from the rafter she was hiding atop.  
  
“ **THE FUCK!!** ” the elf sputtered, “ **WHY?!?!?!** ” scrambling back far enough to fall back-first into a table.  
  
“You need to open your senses more, Inquisitor, “the Mistress said, stoic mask in place so that the bastard didn’t see her amusement.  
  
Harel had taken quite the undignified tumble, falling flat on her rump with her horns catching on the table, scoring through the wood.  
  
“I haven’t broken Josephine’s heart so why are you trying to make _my_ heart explode?” Harel groaned while rubbing her horn bases, “I thought we were at least **a little** ok.”  
  
The Mistress walked forward, taking her time, then offered a hand to the fallen Qunari. There was suspicion in her face as she looked over the gloved fingers.  
  
“I promise you there are no daggers hiding in my gloves,” Leliana said bluntly, “Though there are a few in my boots.”  
  
“I’ll try not to grab your feet at anytime then.” the elf replied while grasping the leather tightly.  
  
After hoisting up the Inquisitor, The Spymaster stood waiting, making it known that she was ready to hear whatever night-time childish notion the woman had come up with today.  
  
“I-” the elf started before throwing her braid over her shoulder, “You’re good at finding things, yes?”  
  
The question caught the Mistress off guard.  
She was expecting more syrupy teenaged crush-esque questions rather than...whatever that was.  
  
“It depends on what exactly you’re looking for,” the Mistress said, motioning for Harel to follow her to her altar.  
  
The elf begins to stretch her arms out, easing the tension in her body before snapping her limbs back to her sides. This was the Baron’s territory and she dare not give him any excuses to flock near her.  
  
The white-haired Qunari turned her head to the Baron’s perch where he watched her, eyes unblinking, beak slightly open as if waiting to peck.  
  
She **fucking** hated him.  
  
“If you were not with our Ambassador, I would have suspected you had a lusting for birds,” Leliana quips over her shoulder, “as I always catch you staring at Plucky.”  
  
Nostrils flared at the jape, Harel retaliated, “The only lusting I have for that bastard is for his blood.”  
  
One would think that damn bird was a Mabari hybrid by the way he observed the conversation, flaring his wings wide as a means to threaten the elf for her insult.  
  
“Yes, yes shove it up your feathered ass, Plucky.” Harel spat.  
  
Once they made their way to the altar, Leliana took a knee to the statue, eyes flitting from the icon of Andraste then back to the elf, waiting for the request.  
  
“I want to find the old Montilyet crest,” Harel spoke, looking over the statue, “Josephine said her ancestors were Orlesian, I mean, it makes a lot of sense, her name isn’t very Antivan.” a small chuckle, “but she really wants to find one and since you’re the Mistress who knows-”  
  
“A gift for Josie? Certainly.” Leliana said with a small smile, “It may take some finding but I am sure some antiquarian has it stashed away in a corner.” her eyes move from the icon back to Harel, an unblinking stare, “Was that all?”  
  
There is a look to the Spymistress’ face, one that asked Harel to divulge what she knew, the pressing matter that presented on the tip of her tongue. The bard knew she was holding back something.  
  
Green eyes stared at the candles flickering around Andraste’s form.  
  
“She ran out into the garden not too long ago,” she sighed, “She’s been hiding the sickness very well but it was so much worse than I thought,” eyes looked back to Leliana, “I don’t think she’s slept a proper night since Haven.”  
  
Clasping her hands together, Leliana bowed her head to the statue in prayer, but no prayers came from her lips, “She has been suffering but it is not easy to look past her mask unless she takes it off,” a harsh sigh, “I knew of her journey to the garden. My eyes and ears are always open.”  
  
Sharp and clear, like a dagger made of ice, blue eyes turned up to look at the elf to silently interrogate, “I wanted to see what you would do.”  
  
Though Harel liked her higher, more intimidating ground, this conversation was not a pissing match. It was a legitimate discussion and Leliana gave only the best counsel when it came to Josephine. Bending her knees, the Qunari sat cross-legged next to the Mistress who watched her the whole time as unflinchingly as the Baron.  
  
Leliana continued, “It is easy to fling oneself into a dalliance but I wanted to be sure Josie’s heart was carried away by a proper person. I told you about her fears but that was simply words that could have bounced off your thick skull,” red eyebrows furrowed slightly, “I wanted to know your actions, what you would do to assuage her troubles or if you were just another flighty foolish idiot who would run away at the sight of legitimate need.”  
  
Not once did the Inquisitor flinch at the words thrown at her, “And did I meet your standards, Spymaster?”  
  
The Orlesian looked back to the statue of Andraste, hands unclasping to rest on her knee, “Yes...” she said softly, “You were there for her when she needed you. Despite having to be called by the boy, Cole,” Harel was about to speak before she’s cut off, “It is quite alright, no one would have expected you to know she was in the garden. It is what you did when you found her that matters.”  
  
Again, silence. The birds fluttered slightly, but most were asleep in their cages, waiting for the morning where they would stretch their wings and fly.  
  
“You have a good heart, Fen’Harel,” Leliana says again, “which is why I am confused you would so easily take to that name when you have another that is less belligerent,” she looks to the elf with a question in her eyes, “Tama.”  
  
Of course the Mistress would know everything about her. No reason to hide anything from her when her eyes saw all no matter where it hid.  
  
“Because I...” Harel said as she scrubbed her hand through her hair, “I didn’t feel like Tama when I stepped out of the Fade...” her eyes go glassy as she looks at the wall, “I felt different yet the same. I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s been this hollow in me, gnawing at me like I’m missing something that isn’t there.” she looks to Leliana with muted fear, “When I look at the Fade, when I look at Rifts, I can’t help but feel drawn to it, like I should be in there.”  
  
The Mistress abandoned all attention she once had to the statue to focus on completely on Harel, turning her body slightly toward the elf, “What do you mean a hollow? Did going into the Fade do something to you?”  
  
Harel simply sighed, “I’m not dying, that much is clear, I feel fine physically,” the elf taps on her head then her chest, “its here and here that I’m feeling off. Maybe it’s the Anchor or something from the Fade but...I’m different now...”  
  
Dammit all, the Inquisitor was making no sense.  
  
As much as Leliana would like to dig into the Qunari, she didn’t. All it would achieve is the same roundabout question and answer. She would however, scour her contacts to see what else could be learned about this hollow and this mental imbalance she was suffering.  
  
No man has walked into the Fade since the assault on the Golden City; it could very well be some side effects from this physical venture.  
  
A hand on her shoulder caught Harel off guard, completely and totally so, considering who the hand was attached to.  
  
“I will try to find out more about your condition, Inquisitor,” Leliana said kindly, “and that gift for Josie, of course.”  
  
The glassy look in the Qunari’s eyes dispersed as she looked back at Mistress, “Thanks,” she said while clapping a hand down on Leliana’s shoulder.  
  
“You’re pushing it.” came a well-meaning growl from the red-head.  
  
Quick as lightning, Harel removed her hand with a small pout, “You let me hug you after the Breach was closed yet I give you one pat on the shoulder and you want me dead?”  
  
“If I recall, I believe I said I was going to stab you after that hug,” the Mistress quipped.  
  
Ah.  
Bringing herself upwards, the Spymaster once again offered a hand to Harel who took it gratefully, pulling herself up.  
  
“Look at that, only one death threat tonight and no assassination attempts!” the Qunari said with a big smile, “I believe we’re becoming friends, Leliana”  
  
The comment caused Leliana to narrow her eyes, “Would you like me to attempt more often, _Inquisitor._ ”  
  
“I-”  
  
Harel was cut off from her retort when both women heard the library door close. At this time of night, one would expect a guard but it never hurt to be prepared. The Inquisitor began charging a barrier around the two of them while Leliana drew a dagger from her glove, earning a very miffed stare from the elf.  
  
As the footsteps grew louder, both ladies recognized the softness of the gait and hurried to put on their doe-eyes and put away any sharp objects before the oncoming person realized how ready they were to kill.  
  
And that person detested killing.  
  
“Ah, there you are,” Josephine said as she crested the steps, “I see you two are becoming fast friends.”  
  
A leather-gloved hand ruffled the hair on the Qunari’s head, earning the Mistress a thoroughly confused look, “Of course, we are getting along like ducks in a pond.” she pulls the Inquisitor close, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.  
  
A smile, far too bright and happy to exist at this time of night shone from the Ambassador’s face at the mere mention of their ‘friendship’.  
  
The Orlesian and the horned elf locked gazes before looking back to the golden lady, an understanding made but left unsaid.  
  
Yes, we’ll get along if it makes you happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that fun for you? I'm a little embarrassed so every time I write these, my face goes red (AN edit from the future: wow look at that HEY WH4T YOU CAN BLOCK OUT THE EMBARRASSMENT IF YOU DRINK ENOUGH!!!! Also remember that sweet peppers go bad surprisingly fast)
> 
> Thanks for reading this indulgent bullshit


	14. A Damn Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold is not Antiva  
> It's drafty, cold and there's snow everywhere
> 
> She falls ill  
> But have no fear  
> A wolf's fur is very warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leliana and Josephine's friendship dynamic is a whole thing. Its my headcannon that they're like sisters from another mister.

It was bound to happen at some point.  
The consistent chill that echoed through Skyhold’s halls could not be killed by fireplaces alone. Even with the torches burning, Josephine’s office always held a wintry temperature; a large drafty castle ensured a regular snuffing of warmth.  
  
A sneeze.  
  
How mortifying.  
  
Instead of writing away, Josephine found herself holding up her head with the back of her hand, a fever growing on her paling skin.  
  
A damn cold.  
  
She wasn’t made for the icy winds that often lashed the Keep, so it was only a matter of time till the frigid air racked her body with sickness.  
  
Placing her pen down, she brought the edges of her palms to squeeze against her temples. A fever was coming and now _a headache_. She only acknowledged its presence when the words on her page began blurring, the Common fading into the parchment. She thought it was just from the constant strain she put her eyes under.  
  
No.  
A _damn_ cold.  
  
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt exhaustion nearly bowl her over until she’d catch herself, straightening up as if nothing happened. Her head almost smacked straight into her inkpot after her last episode.  
Everything felt congested, her sinuses, her throat and especially her lungs which rendered her breathing little more than a painful rasp against her ribs.  
  
She had felt the stirrings of illness the night before but only found herself overcome once morning rose. She nearly fell back asleep in the cage of a certain Qunari elf’s arms but she couldn’t bring herself to fade away.  
  
Things needed to be done all the time every day.  
It would not do to shirk her never-ending duties.  
  
She had extricated herself from the grey mass which held her down, a still dreaming arm barely awake reaching out to the empty bedside, only to flop back down and curl into the sheets. Josephine was lucky that the Inquisitor was a notoriously heavy sleeper or else she was sure she wouldn’t hear the end of it.  
  
_You’re sick! Nononono, you sit your pretty little ass back in this bed right now! What? No! I’m not getting you any of your parchments,_ _just_ _go back to_ _ **sleep!**_ _Don’t you dare pout at me, I’m getting you some tea, don’t move!_ _ **WHAT**_ _ **THE FUCK**_ _ **DID I JUST SAY!!!**_ _  
  
_She could practically hear the elf chittering away in her head, causing the Ambassador to laugh; a move she instantly regretted as a stabbing sensation in her lungs made itself known.  
  
She was surprised when the racket she made that morning did nothing to rouse the Herald. A consistent spate of coughing and sneezing had rebounded around the bedroom as she gathered herself to leave.  
A small mumble from the bed.  
Then silence.  
It was truly much easier to wake the elf in the night than in the morning.  
  
Now she sat in her office, feeling far too hot despite the semi-chilled room. Her vision blurred again as she tried to read the words on the contract she was writing. Just smudges of ink, even when she squinted.  
  
Rolling her eyes, she scooted out of her chair, bracing herself against the desk as she felt a spell of dizziness overcome her.  
  
1...2...3....  
  
She waited, then began walking towards the main hall, hoping that some fresh air would help clear her mind. Furs be damned, she felt as though she were on fire, just the thought alone of a cloak made her feel wildly uncomfortable.  
  
As she stepped through both doors, she noticed the ring of nobles passing by, obviously wanting a word. Fortunately, she was quick, giving them a slight nod to acknowledge their presence before hurrying away to the garden. She caught Varric’s eye as she passed the common room tables, his eyebrow raised then bringing the back of his hand up to his forehead.  
  
Being a writer, the man was far too observant.  
  
She gave a nullifying wave and quickened her pace, leaving no room for him to gesture any further.  
  
It was time to regret not bringing a cloak.  
  
The chilly air was far harsher than earlier, the breeze picking up and tossing leaves around the yard. Josephine drew her arms around her, ruffled sleeves doing nothing to protect herself from the cold. The light tap of shoes was drowned out by the howling of the wind; normally the garden was a lovely gathering place for people but it seemed as though the weather was enough to chase everyone away. No matter, she kept going, the fever on her skin rekindling to keep her warm.  
  
Nothing about this was a good idea.  
  
She rested her forearms on an archway partition, looking over the garden that the Inquisitor transformed. The elf seemed to enjoy all manners of flora, so she had the area converted to facilitate herb and flower propagation. Already she saw some beautiful multi-coloured clusters blooming though the Ambassador’s eyesight made it difficult to see what exactly was growing.  
  
It was still morning, falling near to noon, the sun hidden behind clouds as if the crisp air was too much for it to show. The chill did little for the burning pain in her lungs and throat. Even breathing sent an agonizing spike through her chest with every small sip of air. As if summoned, a horrible fit of coughing tore through her body which she suppressed with a handkerchief kept close at all times. Once the fit subsided, she felt even more drained of energy only to realize the painful tenderness of her skin every time she touched something.  
  
_Fantastic  
  
_Looking at the centre of the garden, she saw the gazebo and was reminded vaguely of someone. A hat coming closer as the moon hung low, a shadow approaching, voice trembling with unshed tears.  
  
Who?  
  
All she remembered was Harel, a flash of green eyes worried beyond reason, black eyebrows furrowed, a neck that smelled of Elfroot, Arbor Blessing and the earth.  
  
Another fit of coughing came on as the breeze blew harder, her already sore throat aching as if she swallowed hot coals.  
  
Coming outside was a terrible idea.  
  
“So you want to die?” came a voice from behind.  
  
The sudden surprise made her gasp, pulling yet another fit of coughing from her already sickly body.  
  
Maker, if she didn’t cough up her skeleton by the end of the day, she would call that a victory.

Josephine turned to the voice, her head so stuffy and disoriented that she couldn’t make out the tone at first.  
  
Green eyes swirled with a variety of emotions. Minutely peeved, quite concerned, a little sad, a touch amused and the list went on. Harel’s lips were pressed into a thin line at the sight of the sickly Ambassador, a grey hand came up to rest against the burning forehead, black eyebrows creased even more.  
  
“If I were truly unwell, I would not have been able to venture outside,” said Josephine in a soft, scratchy voice.  
  
The hand retreated from the diplomat’s forehead to gently cradle ink-stained fingers. At first, the Ambassador flinched from the contact, her skin still sensitive from the fever, then relaxing.  
  
Feeling the wind pick up, Harel released the hand to untie her coat, ignoring the weak protests emanating from the Lady. With the last tie undone, the Qunari removed her cloak, wrapping the sickly woman in a shroud long enough to reach her ankles. The inside was warm, which only grew hotter now that her fever was contained. Plush fur clung to her neck as she watched the blurry elf hop over the stony partition into the herb garden. Grey eyes tried to focus on what Harel was doing but the more she tried, the more her head throbbed.  
  
Seeing the pain in Josephine’s face, the elf took care to step over the partition so that no extra noise was made from her landing. In her palms was an odd combination of reds and oranges, disappearing as large hands cupped and covered the contents.  
  
The diplomat had no idea what was going on in the elf’s hands but soon, a gentle stream of heat began emanating from the gaps in her fingers; a small spout of steam emerging.  
  
“Breathe this in, it’ll help clear your lungs,” the Inquisitor said kindly, offering her still cupped hands to the Ambassador, “Embrium, it’s known for this.”  
  
Trusting the mage’s good word, she leant forward inhaling the steam. At first, she sputtered at the bitter, slightly smokey flavour, but soon felt a minute opening to her airways.  
She breathed in again, trying to stamp down the flavour of the desiccated herbs.  
Soon her breathing felt a little better, allowing her to take a gentle breath without the fear of coughing up a lung. Albeit still uncured of a majority of her maladies, Josephine gave a weak smile at the elf for her help.  
  
Grinning widely, the Inquisitor turned away, bending over the partition to scatter the remaining herbs to the nursery as compost.  
  
Dusting her hands, the elf fussed slightly with the coat covering the Ambassador, “Feeling better?” she said softly, “Don’t speak if your throat still hurts, a nod or anything is good.”  
  
Josephine dipped her head into a small nod, burrowing slightly into the cloak as her eyes began to close.  
  
“You’re always falling asleep in this garden,” the Inquisitor japed quietly, “Let’s get you to bed-”  
  
“No, no, I am fine, I can return to my desk and continue-” Josephine would have continued if she wasn’t cut off by a fit of coughing, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth as her throat pain made itself known.  
  
When she finished, she spied Harel making the same face as when she came, this time, more upset at the Ambassador's resistance to resting.  
  
“You have two choices,” the Herald said, lifting her index finger for emphasis, “One, you retreat with dignity or two, I heft you like a princess for all the world to see.” a wolfish grin appeared on her face, “I do hope you fight me so I can spirit you away, Kadan.”  
  
The sickly Antivan looked up into those green eyes which dared her to protest. Instead, she turned her eyes away from the blurry face before pulling Harel into an embrace, holding her as tightly as her weakened limbs would allow.  
  
“People will talk.” Josephine mumbled into the cold leather, “If they see you escorting me to either of our rooms.”  
  
A hand, gentle in its intent, patted the black styled hair before pulling her head closer into her chest.  
  
“I know,” Harel whispered, a small pause hung in the air before she continued “does it bother you?”  
  
“I know it bothers _you_ ,” came a reply in a scratchy voice, “and it pains me when I see the vile nature of these rumours dig into you. I have grown accustomed to hurtful gossip due to my profession, but you” a small breath before continuing, “I fear it may drive you away.”  
  
It was almost too soft, the ill voice confessing her inner-thoughts.  
It was also upsetting how true the sentiments were.  
The words did indeed hurt, but it riled Harel just a little.  
Never.

She would **never** be driven away.  
It would take the Lady’s hatred to sever her, not her worry.  
  
A knot formed in the elf’s throat at the mere thought of Josephine’s imaginary hatred.

  
No, calm down.  
  
“I agree that the stories about me are....well...the nasty things people say about me are always awful to hear,” Harel confided, “but I won’t let idiot fucks control how I feel about you. If I’m to court you,” a grey hand slides over to a burning cheek, a thumb running against the skin, “then I’ll just have to harden my shell.”  
  
Josephine closed her eyes, listening to the words buzz in the Qunari’s chest, her heartbeat slow and steady like the rhythm of her words.

Honest and direct.  
  
“I’m just a bit worried about the chattering on your end; people are still trying to get over seeing me appear around corners. If the news about us reaches Antiva...I....I don’t know how your family will react...I’m sure Yvette is blabbering all about us but-”  
  
“I will handle them if it comes to that,” came a strict murmur from the Antivan, arms tightening around the Qunari, “I will not have them driving you away.”  
  
The worry in Harel’s voice made her fret.  
Maybe she was having second thoughts.  
Maybe she didn’t want to deal with all the pomp and drama that came from being attached to nobility.  
  
Maybe she was regretting-  
  
A heavy sigh reverberated in the Inquisitor’s chest, cutting Josephine off from her downward spiral. The hand against her cheek moved to lace fingers in her bun, pulling at the pins. The Antivan made a small noise of disapproval which stopped the Inquisitor dead in her tracks.  
  
“Ready to go?” the elf said, bending forward to speak into black hair, “If you’re ok with all the gossip, I’d like to-”  
  
A harsh sigh exhaled before Josephine unlatched herself from the Inquisitor, knowing full well what she wanted to do. Turning her body sideways, she could practically feel the unbridled glee in the idiot’s giggling.  
  
Carefully, Harel positioned herself to raise the Ambassador, one arm bracing the back of her knees, the other against her lower back. She hoisted her up easily before pulling her flush against her chest. With an ear to the Qunari’s heart, Josephine found herself drifting away despite the undignified position she was in; curling herself into the winter cloak hoping no one could see who lay inside the furs.  
  
Hopefully, people would think she was just some materials being delivered upstairs.  
  
Then again, she opened her eyes to see a dopey grin on the idiot’s face as she pulled open door after door with a twist of her legs. The smile was directed at her for just a moment, an infatuated light shining in those green eyes that made Josephine poke her head out from the cloak.  
  
Damn everyone who looked at them with disparaging whispers.  
None of them mattered more than the delighted eyes and foolish grin swimming in her blurred vision.  
  
She heard Varric cheering the scene.  
  
Damn that dwarf in particular.  
  


* * *

  
“If you fall ill because of me-”  
  
‘Shush, aren’t you supposed to be sick,” came a retort from the fireplace, “Act like a sick person and stop worrying.”  
  
After carrying Josephine to her room, Harel deposited her on the bed, fussing about everything from the temperature to the dust in the upstairs loft. The Qunari went bright red once she saw the Ambassador unwinding her golden scarf, fingers moving to unbutton the blouse before moving onto the ties holding together her blue dress.  
  
Immediately, the elf turned away, hands covering her face before moving towards her dresser, fishing around for a nightdress. She didn’t really know which drawer Josephine kept everything in so she opened each, staring inside with a confused look at clothes she never really wore. Her eyes stuck on a hideous grey form-fitted outfit that tickled memories of Haven in her mind. Such dreadfully disgusting apparel she found herself wearing when she first woke up in the village.  
  
She recalled a lovely golden lady at the War Table, a smile, a curtsey, a cultured greeting. Narrowing her eyes in embarrassment, she recalled her nervous gushing, the consistent blathering that made Cassandra nearly toss her outside.  
  
It felt so long ago now.  
  
The elf turned her face to look towards the bed, only to conduct a static charge strong enough to send her hair raising.  
  
Back turned to her, Harel saw the Lady, an expanse of dark skin bisected by the pale blue cloth of her breastband, black hair unbound and swept over her shoulder to the front. She stared at the smooth curve of her waist followed by the flare of her hips, soft, sweet and silky-  
  
**STOP LOOKING  
  
**Immediately snapping her head back to the dresser, the Qunari set her wide eyes elsewhere, furiously searching for...ANDRUIL’S SWEATY TITS, WHAT WAS SHE LOOKING FOR AGAIN?  
  
“Harel?”  
  
If the screaming in her mind was any louder, her head would explode.  
  
“Harel!”  
  
The Inquisitor squeezed her eyes shut at the mention of her name in the strained voice, turning her head towards the origin. Cracking open one eye, the elf saw Josephine laying on her side, nightdress already on, handkerchief in hand looking all too ready to knock out.  
  
Ah, so that’s where the nightdress was.  
  
The Ambassador moved to tuck herself under the covers, a tawny hand gesturing for her to come closer. She should be a little accustomed by now, sharing a bed with the Lady, but every time she looked at the person under the covers, she felt to throw up.  
  
In a good way, of course.  
  
The Qunari elf was courting the Lady.  
  
She had to keep reminding herself.  
  
Harel made her way towards the bed, removing her boots then sitting on the sheets. She could already see Josephine struggling to stay awake, grey eyes barely open, hoarse breathing still very audible. Leaning forward, the elf could see those gold rings peeking from the heavy fan of eyelashes. Harel slouched against the headboard as Josephine drew herself closer, a feverish arm draping across her midsection. The Herald propped up the sickly Antivan to her chest, a grey arm holding her tightly in place. After fussing a bit with the pillows, the elf ensured her paramour was comfortable in her new position; her eyes were closed but she was still very much awake.  
  
“Can you tell me a tale,” Josephine mumbled into the Qunari’s chest, an ear pressed closely to listen to her heart, “Are there tales in the Qunari language?”  
  
Harel waited for the diplomat to stop sniffling before she spoke, “There's the stories about Koslun, but that’s more religious,” green eyes looked up to the ceiling, thinking hard, “I guess I can tell you some Elvhen tales in...uh...Qunlat...some of the words won’t translate of course but....”  
  
A slight brush of fingers against her ribs had the Qunari pause for a moment.  
  
“There’s a tale about the Dread Wolf called The Slow Arrow...” Harel started before slowly retelling the story in bassy Qunlat.  
  
A depressing story masked in a different language, the throaty hums of each word curling off the tongue. A tale told, not to inform, but to lull, to guide another into the Fade so that sickness may be smoothed away under the warm hands of the storyteller.

The Lady was long lost to the real world, her mind drifting away far before the end of the tale even rounded the corner. Josephine’s breathing was slow and even, like the night before, after another nightmare lay claim on her, only to flatten out into a peaceful slumber.  
  
Once she was certain the Antivan was asleep, she gently moved from her grasp, prying herself from the sickly body which curled into the warm space left by the Qunari.  
  
Sitting up to put back on her boots, Harel made her way to the closed balcony doors, letting herself through with closed eyes lest she catches a sight of the mountains and begins shaking with fear. She brought a curled finger to her lips, releasing a sharp whistle, catching the attention of one of the many ravens flocking around Skyhold.  
  
The bird flew towards her, a tame, black Rook with a white chest, a far cry from the carnivorous fury of Baron Plucky. The Rook settled on her shoulder as the elf withdrew some portable charcoal and parchment from her pocket, her back to the scenic view. She wrote to Leliana, telling her Josephine slept soundly despite the fever, that she couldn’t stay due to her various duties to every single _fucking_ person in Thedas --she didn’t say it like that exactly but the sentiment was well known--. That she would be locking all the doors but she should be wary in case she tried to move around. She may panic or sleepwalk and fall down the stairs.  
  
There was a variety of things that could go wrong with her wandering.  
  
But the Inquisitor was always needed, she couldn’t stay and keep vigil even though she sorely wanted to. Too many things, asking for her attention all the time every day.  
  
The green scar of her palm gave a soft glow in response to her upset; fading away as she tried to calm herself.  
  
_Kost_  
  
The War Table would feel much quieter without the ever-present quill scratching. At least Cullen would stop getting caught in-between the conversations those two had.  
  
_I_ _have request for information on your lineage from a few i_ _nterested_ _parties at the_ _Winter Palace_ _.  
_

_Andraste_ _preserve me! Feel free to use those requests as kindling.  
_

_No, I shall take them. I want to know who pines for our Commander. We can use this to our advantage.  
_

_I'm not bait!  
_

_Hush! Just look pretty.  
  
_The memory sparked an immediate chuckle from Harel who was busy tying the missive to the bird’s leg. Sending the Rook off, the elf looked through the balcony doors, spying a still sleeping figure holding onto a pillow.  
  
She’ll come back to check up on her.  
Maybe bring some tea.  
As she opened the doors to go back inside, a thought came to her.  
  
Tea...She’ll need to talk to Bull.  
  
Passing back to the bed, she lay a grey hand over Josephine’s burning forehead, the outdoor chill of her skin soothing the tense expression that was forming.  
  
The Lady seemed oddly intrigued by her culture. She thought back to the rapt attention shown to Bull and her speak in Qunlat back in Haven. Now, the story request in the same language. The wolf smiled before turning tail to the staircase.  
  
She’ll be sure to enlighten her further if her interest was indeed true.  
  


* * *

  
The sound of paper shuffling brought her drifting mind back from her dreams. Opening her eyes, Josephine saw the sun streaming in before looking off towards the desk.  
Her head still throbbed with a powerful headache and her fever still remained unbroken against her sensitive skin. She brought herself to sit up very slowly, a thumb pressed to her temple to allay the pain.  
  
“How are you feeling, Josie?”  
  
A familiar accent normally wrapped in ice was melted at the sight of her friend’s awakening. The Spymistress pushed the chair back as leather boots tapped against the stone floor.  
  
“I admit, I do not feel much better,” came an answer in a bare whisper.  
  
“Hush, do not strain your voice, I am coming.” the Mistress was quick to answer  
  
Leliana hurried towards the bed, the chainmail pieces clicking together as she sat on the sheets. A leather glove immediately found itself on the covers as a pale hand felt the Antivan’s forehead.  
  
“Merde! You are burning up!” she said with a concerned quaver to her voice, “Have you taken anything for your cold? A potion? A damp rag to quell the fever?”  
  
Josephine sat up further, laying her head back on the cool wood before answering, “Harel had me inhale a concoction of hers.” she pictured the smile on her face, lips moving to say, “Embrium. She reduced the flower to steam.”  
  
There was a dip to the Mistress’ eyebrows, “And that is all? No wonder you are still unwell!”  
  
Leliana starts to fuss but Josephine stops her by placing a feverish hand on hers.  
  
“It is quite alright,” she spoke through stuffed sinuses, “If she had not brought me here, I would be at my desk and we would be having the same conversation.”  
  
Blue eyes narrowed at the thought, “I would have killed her if she simply left you to work.”  
  
A quiet laugh cut off by coughing sprang from the Lady as she reached for her handkerchief on the bedside table. The Mistress had become less frosty to Harel over time, though still antagonistic, she was not as vicious.  
  
“Is there ever a time you are not threatening to murder our good Herald?” Josephine said with a playful sparkle to her eyes.  
  
The Spymaster put on a thoughtful look, “I suppose when I sleep I do not wish her harm,” a small smirk, “Then again, my dreams can be quick to turn violent.”  
  
A tawny hand gently smacked the Mistress’ arm before the Antivan cuddled backwards into the pillows. Leliana looked over her friend, tired eyes made more drained by the dark bags underneath; thankfully with the nights spent in the Inquisitor’s quarters, it seemed as though sleep was coming easier to her now.  
  
Maybe she’ll get the damn precocious bastard a thank you gift for her legitimate care.  
She seemed to be oddly entranced with Druffalos and Halla, maybe she could get her a carving made.  
  
Maybe a special mount to replace the one she lost in Haven, the poor brat had indeed wept like a child for the horse while they looked for Skyhold.  
  
“Would you like some tea?” the Spymistress asked, “There is this fantastic blend Madame Eprise sent which hails from Minrathous.”  
  
A tired smile came from Josephine before she brought a hand up to suppress a yawn.  
  
“I suppose you would like to rest instead,” Leliana said with a gentle smile.  
  
As she moved back against the pillows, Leliana made motions to move away, her glove just slipped on before she felt a warm hand grasping the leather. She looked to Josephine who watched her closely with a question on her lips.  
  
“Will you sing for me, Leli?” the Ambassador said, voice tired and soft, still rough from the cold.  
  
It had been far too long since she last sang, but with the way Josie cast her sleepy, hopeful eyes, she caved immediately. Readjusting herself back on the bed, leaning closer to the sickly Antivan, she made herself open to requests.  
  
“What would you like to hear, _mon amie_?” she queried, squeezing the hand wrapped around her glove.  
  
Leliana could see the cogs turning in her head, working far slower than usual but still unwaveringly focused.  
  
“There is a Dalish mourning song,” she smiles recalling the lilting voice no one ever thought could come from the Inquisitor, “Do you know of it?”  
  
The Mistress bit her lip, breathing a short laugh as she recalled the music in her heart.  
It just kept coming back no matter how much time passed.  
  
“Of course,” Leliana said, rubbing a leather-bound thumb over the slender hand.  
  


* * *

  
Spices, floating through the air, the sound of bubbling water. She cracks her eyes open, looking towards the balcony again.  
  
Evening.  
  
She was not getting any sleep tonight, that much was certain.  
  
As she got her bearings, Josephine noticed the water bucket and rag next to the bed and smiled.  
  
Leliana.  
  
Her head felt less horrible and her fever seemed to have calmed, though her skin still burned when the bedcovers came down from around her shoulders.  
  
She looked over to the fireplace where the bubbling noises came from.  
  
Harel, kneeling to check on a teapot heating over the fire, the fire sending orange and yellow halos over her white hair. She could just barely see her ear twitch from the sound of the covers moving. The elf turns her head towards the sound, green eyes once mired with responsibility turned back into the look of a playful Halla.  
  
“Kadan.” was all that came from the Qunari with a smile so pure and affectionate that the Ambassador felt herself blushing despite her fever.  
  
“What are you-?” Josephine tried to say, before her voice cracked midway, completely demolishing the question.  
  
The elf frowned at the display, then raised herself up, taking the teapot with her towards the two mugs she had laid out on the desk. With a practised hand, the Harel tipped the pot, pouring steaming liquid into the cups. She moved back to the fire, teapot in hand to hang it away from the flame before returning for the cups.  
  
Josephine watched the movements carefully, noticing how the Herald held a small smile on her face as she poured each cup. Harel drew closer reaching out a mug to the Antivan who accepted it gratefully. Placing her own on the endtable, the Qunari took to removing her boots.  
  
The Ambassador looked into the mug, she had never smelled a tea like this one before; it was a strong scent, almost spicy in its aroma.  
  
“I noticed you took an interest in Qunlat,” Harel said as she undid her shoe buckles, “Good to know that you’re going all out with the Qunari fetish.”  
  
She felt a light tap against her back, an act of violence so rare from the Lady.  
  
“Must you be so crass?” Josephine replied with clear exasperation.  
  
Lifting herself onto the bed, Harel grabbed her mug of tea, clinking it against the Ambassador's own.  
  
“Well, this tea is very special. It’s from Seheron,” the elf said as the diplomat rested her head on a leather-coated shoulder, “I asked Bull if he knew anyone who could get some. Turns out the bastard was holding out on me! He had a whole stash from a few contacts.” she chuckles slightly, “I think one of his suppliers is Dorian but he gets all red when I tease him.”  
  
At the mention of the snarky mage, Josephine piped up, “The Iron Bull and.....Dorian?” there was clear surprise on her face.  
  
Harel snorted as she sipped the spicy liquid, “Yup, who would have thought. The pretty little mage and the hulking, carnal Tal-Vashoth.” green eyes turned to the Ambassador, ‘Not to be confused with the pretty little Antivan and her feisty, mage Elf Vashoth.”  
  
Josephine tried to hide her blush as she sipped her tea.  
She really tried.  
  
“Do you like it?” Harel muttered as Josephine drew closer to the elf, “It’s a little spicy but...”  
  
“It certainly has an interesting flavour,” the Antivan replied as she snuggled into the warming leather, “Perfect for my current state.”  
  
Harel jostled her shoulder gently as a playful gesture, “That’s not an answer, Josie.”  
  
Sipping her tea again, the Ambassador mulled over the Qunari’s words before replying, “I believe that is the first time you’ve called me that in earnest.”  
  
The Herald furrows her brows a little, thinking back, then morphing her expression into one of mild surprise.  
  
“Huh, ok.....That's true...Though Leliana already has claim on that one. I'll just call you Finny then,” a wicked smile stretched on Harel’s face as she felt the discomfort emanating from Josephine.  
  
“No you will not.” she said, pulling herself away from the idiot, “It is so......puerile.”  
  
The Ambassador protested the more she heard the new name called until they both threatened to slosh their tea from the movement. Harel chortled, poking her with the name at every opportunity, till Josephine fixed her with a glare that made her body turn cold.  
  
Ok, time to stop.  
  
She heard the raspy breathing puff harder in the Antivan’s chest and forced herself to calm down before she made another flurry of coughs rip through the woman’s lungs yet again.  
  
“I still think Finny and Fen is the most adorable thing,” the elf pouts as she drains her tea in a few gulps, ignoring the glare set on her again, “but fine, fine if you want to be _stingy_ you go right ahead.”  
  
An arm came snaking its way around Josephine’s shoulder pulling her in to lay on her chest. The agitation was quick to vanish once she laid down. The heartbeat echoed through the cavern of the elf’s ribcage, lulling her but not enough to sleep. She smiled as the plucky Qunari started up talking again, the tea held close with scents of a land surrounded by the sea.  
  
She felt a small jolt as the Qunari spoke, thinking it to be another discharge of lightning from the plucky elf, only to feel something thrumming in her chest, a memory, a feeling and many words which once lay mired in drunk confusion, singing clearly in her mind. _  
  
_Harel stopped speaking when she noticed the green strands of mana sparking on the Lady’s shoulders.  
  
Josephine's eyes were wide with surprise.  
  
“You’ve felt this way for so long,” she said, grey eyes astonished, “I had no idea....”  
  
Harel simply looked confused until the Lady spoke words she had long forgotten, “A laugh that reminds me of leaves, incense and the sea.” she stopped for a second, recounting the words, “Where my heart lies....is that...Kadan?”  
  
The Qunari placed her mug on the bedside table, turning to face Josephine who was just trying to process the flood of emotions.  
  
Then the elf had huge grin on her face as she took up a delicate hand in her own to place a kiss on her knuckle, “Yes, yes,” she breathed a laugh, “for that long. Your laugh was like home to me, Kadan.” she rested her forehead on her hand before chuckling again, “I suppose that’s your first lesson in Qunlat.”  
  
Green eyes lifted upwards like a bolt of storm from the Fade fizzling on the sand, making glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make chapter 2 not seem like an entire fucking cringy mess. So I tied it in.
> 
> The soft, sweet and silky thing is the dirty thoughts going through Blackwall's head in some banter with Cole in-game. Blackwall had a crush on Josephine and boy oh boy were his thoughts out fuckin there
> 
> Remember to put on sunscreen when you go outside, if you burn up and die, it's not my fault
> 
> Thanks for reading, you make this old bastard proud


	15. Hollowing, Helpless, Hurting Harel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things tend to get worse before they get better.  
> She forgets wolves are not solitary creatures.  
> Communication is key.
> 
> Slowly but surely, like sleepwalking, she fades.

Taashath once spoke of Rivaini palm readers that could divine your future by the grooves in one’s flesh. She wondered what future they would see in the thin green lines that curved around her hand. Like veins oozing with poison, the strokes painted along her wrist, growing in length and width, crawling all the way up to her index finger. She could feel it in her blood, the old magic twisting in her marrow.   
  


The mark was growing.  
  


Harel pressed a thumb to the Anchor, feeling it activate, a ray of green shining from her flesh. A ticklish pain, small enough to go unnoticed yet apparent enough to make her dig a nail into the glow. It disturbed her, the slow crawl of domination. At the back of her mind, waiting and watching, she would hear the thought rebounding, a promise of death once the mark finished its journey.

  
Coupled with the odd hollow in her soul, she knew not what was to become of her.

It rang out in her chest whenever she saw a Rift, pulling her in, wringing her dry of her being, absorbing.  
  


She would catch herself staring off into space, sometimes she’d be elsewhere not knowing how she appeared. Pieces of herself, fading away, the present becoming the future with no hint of what happened in the past.  
  


She was once a talkative mess, a smile bursting forth without warrant but now, it was harder to summon the grin. 

Now…  
  


She was being consumed.

She would have to tell Josephine one day.

She couldn’t just keep this descent hidden.

It would be far worse if she waited.  
  
"Glittering, vicious angry stones hidden by soft eyelashes, she won’t scream, she won’t cry. I feel she may just hate me, boiling rage cooling to defeat. I fear even worse, she may just give up." 

Harel was sitting on the battlements overlooking the barn, a crumbled bridge giving her privacy from those who sought her out. 

But not everyone was shut out.

There was one who wasn’t bound by the physical world as strongly as others.

Cole sat cross-legged next to her, hands on his knees, hat tipped low over his face. He found it hard to stay near Harel at times, the roiling, tumbling whirlwind of thoughts had become worse since they learned of Adamant. The preparations to assault the Keep was slow and he could feel the tense knot of pressure building in her, threatening to snap.  
  
He could see the discomfort in the Inquisitor at her thoughts being laid bare. The colour in her heart was beginning to fade, all save for a spark of gold grounding her to the world.  
  
But what if that spark left?  
What would remain?

"Eating you away," he said, never once looking at the Inquisitor, "sipping on your soul because you appeared," he drummed his fingers on his knees, "It tries to pull you back." 

The anchor flares as she feels the ache in her chest. It was true, something was eating her alive. Her meeting area with Taashath was no better. She could feel demons scraping at the walls of her dreams, screaming to be let in, tearing at the veneer. Why wasn’t he there?

She will wait for him to return.  
But it may be too late by then.

She skated her hands over her hair, following the path up to her horns.

A question heavy between them. He knew what she wanted to ask but he had to be patient.  
  


He had to be human.

"What’s happening to me, Cole?" came the soft whisper.

The Spirit brought his knees up, huddling them close to his body before speaking, "Hollowing, helpless, hurting Harel," he looks up to the sun, eyes shielded by his hat, "One half turns to the mirror and sees nothing."

He knows it didn’t help.  
He’s been trying to speak clearly but there’s too many voices all the time.  
It’s hard to focus.

It hurts him.

He could feel the words on his tongue, shifting, transforming from kindness to reality.

As she placed her marked hand on her chest, looking past the mountains and into nothing, he knew the phrase but dare not speak.

He knew at that moment, the words would be a lie.

And lying hurts.

_Kost._ _  
_ _  
_ Where was peace when there was clearly none?  
  


* * *

She didn’t have to.  
She really didn’t have to.  
  
A finger traced the carved crest on the toy boat, a relic of a long-forgotten past brought back from the dead.  
  
All because of one plucky elf’s insistence.  
  
_“Well, that makes a lot of sense,” Harel had said, “Your name is as un-Antivan as they get.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _They were sitting with their chairs pulled together in Josephine’s office, this time, no mourning or pain. Just...existence._ _  
_ _  
_ _“We once sailed legions of ships across the Waking Sea,” came the Ambassador, hand covering the larger grey one, “all under the same crest. Though it has been lost to time after that scandal sent us away.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _The Qunari rested her head against the fabric, careful not to gouge the material of the chair with her horns, “Heritage is important,” her eyes never leaving the fire, “to know where you come from no matter the good or bad. It makes you feel more...I dunno….alive.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Green eyes closed briefly as her hand squeezed the fingers laced between hers, “I suppose that’s why I wanted to learn Qunlat so badly. So I could be closer to who I was despite the...origin…”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“And what an enchanting language it is,” the Antivan replied sweetly._ _  
_ _  
_ _There’s a soft snorting laugh from the funny elf, her eyes moving towards the diplomat._ _  
_ _  
_ _Josephine saw the smallest glint of a question in Harel’s eyes, a need to speak. If not for her diplomatic training, she would have missed the look entirely. Now it laid buried under that soft smile again, unable to be fished out due to reluctance._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Stop frowning, Kadan.” the Qunari says, leaning forward, “It makes me sad to see you fret.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _The charmer brought her in for a tender kiss, though the look in the Inquisitor’s eyes stayed in Josephine’s mind._ _  
_ _  
_ It’s been days since then, the Herald took her usual gang out into the Fallow Mire to deal with _“Wraiths and stuff for one of my specializations or something”_ as she so tactfully put it.  
A tanned finger continued tracing the motto, her mind never wandering from the Qunari.  
She was still the sweet little Halla that bounced around the Keep but there was always a distance to her, a glassy appearance to her eyes that reflected the world back as if she operated by instinct alone.  
  
Something was wrong and it’s been getting worse.  
But she couldn’t force the Inquisitor to speak.  
She would have to talk when she was ready.  
Harel must have trusted her enough by now, of that she was certain.  
Or at least hoped.  
  


* * *

Several paces away, they stood in the courtyard, Harel kicking the dirt, her back to the Armory’s entrance. A group of people began to flock, noticing the event taking place. They made sure to keep a wide berth lest fire and lightning be thrown their way.  
  
Cassandra bent her knees, sword drawn waiting for the Herald to make a move. She had asked the good Seeker to train with her, Cullen’s lyrium addiction had him down for the count. Sharp brown eyes stared holes in the Inquisitor, all pluckiness gone from her body.  
  
She needed to be ready for Adamant, never before had she assaulted a Keep. Even in the Valo-Kas the greatest siege they performed was against a bandit stronghold.  
  
Nothing compared to snarling demons.  
  
The wide-open space of the courtyard made for good training grounds; the Seeker cast a glare at an encroaching group, making them back up all the way to the battlement stairs.  
  
The less chance for casualties, the better.  
  


“GEDDER GOOD CASS!” hailed Sera from her room, “FRIG UP THAT CHEATIN’ MAGICEY GOBSHITE!!!”  
  
Looks like Sera was still quite a bit sore from her encounter with Josie. The city elf had her window barely open, her blond hair peeking out from under the sill.  
  
Yep, she wasn’t taking any chances today. With Cassandra being fit as fuck and Harel being a wildcannon, it was bound to be one hell of a dangerous show.  
  
The Herald got into position, feet spaced apart, arms forward like a rogue with no daggers.  
  
Bull stood atop the battlements with Blackwall, recognizing power and analyzing the sparring match. Though their eyes never left the yard, they muttered and grunted various tactics they believed the Seeker would use. When Bull said something about Cassandra getting the Inquisitor to flip, the Warden gave a laugh through his beard.  
  
Rolling her shoulders, Harel summoned a spark, at first a gentle cascade down her forearms, then moving to coat her arms and legs.  
  
The Seeker was the first to charge, her shield up, dulled sword swinging at the mage.  
  
Harel stepped backwards, casting a spike of lightning at the shield before charging a small barrier. Blue and purple streaks fell uselessly from the shield as Cassandra ran forward to bash the mage with the curved metal.  
  
The mage waited, bided her time, knowing the Seeker could be as cunning as she was impatient. If she moved to the left she’d feint with her sword and catch her in her side.  
To the right, the same outcome.  
  
Cassandra’s legs, albeit parted and solid, were too close together for her to slide under.  
  
Up it was.

  
Gathering the mana in her legs, the Saarebas timed the Nevarran’s charge before raising her foot to catch the hardened steel, pushing off the force of Cassandra’s shield bash, sending her backwards towards Skyhold’s steps. She would not be able to catch herself with her hands alone, her head straight in its trajectory to the stairs.  
  
Time for new tricks.  
  
One floor below, Your Trainer would smile if she could, feeling the Fade shift powerfully through the Veil.  
  
Dancing wisps wrapped around the Inquisitor’s fingers as she summoned the earth of the Fade, greenish-black rocks jutted from her digits as she shoved her hands into the earth, halting her flight and righting her position.  
  
She could see the Seeker’s eyes narrow at the new magic, wary but minutely impressed.  
It was one thing to learn a new school but it was another to use it as no others will.  
  
Utility instead of plain offence or defence.  
  
The spiked rocks faded away, disappearing back into the Fade.  
  
Now that she caught Cassandra’s eye with a new talent, the Seeker would be certain to fight even harder.  
  
Good.  
  
The mage swept her leg in the air, cooling the water that clung to the sky, making ice before hurtling it towards the Seeker. She raised her shield, legs moving enough to immediately run to the side after the ice was deflected.  
  
With the first move played, it was time to set the trap.  
Cassandra wouldn’t charge again, instead, the Seeker skirted the wall near the Quartermaster, moving nearer to the prison, shield never coming down.  
  
Nothing but the wind and the chatter of civilians in the grand hall. Sword gripped tightly, the Seeker summoned a blue aura, Templar bloody magic.  
  
She was going to nullify the mage should she cast any spells.  
Well, it was fucking time for a challenge.  
  
Harel moved back, towards the grand hall, Cassandra watching her movement carefully before the mage took off in a sprint up the steps. 

Cassandra leapt backwards shield braced with a blue glow, before the mage Fade Stepped off the landing, speeding towards the Seeker at a blinding pace. Fully intent on smiting the little shit, Cassandra lashed her sword out in an arc with her shield grasped tightly to ward off any stray spells. Instead of charging Cassandra, the elf moved right past, spinning on the balls of her feet to try and catch the Seeker’s back.  
  
Cassandra was fast, ducking quickly from the billow of flames engulfing her leg.  
  
“NO FIRE, ADAAR!” the Seeker spat.  
It would not do to have the entire fortress go up in flames.  
  
As the leg sailed over her head, the Seeker turned quickly, shield up, eyes darting over the Qunari’s face.  
  
There was a muted shock to Harel’s expression, watching the flames as if…  
  
As if she was confused by its presence.  
  
There was a shift in the air, unnoticeable to all but the two sparring companions and the two watching from above.  
  
_Control_ _  
_ _  
_ The elf leapt back after extinguishing the flames. Not an ounce of rage in her heart.  
  
Summoning fire without anger was harder.  
This smouldering trail she conjured was far too easy to bring out, especially considering she was summoning lightning.  
  
_CONTROL_ _  
_ _  
_ Control what? She felt fine.  
  
What….  
  
Using this opportunity, the Seeker disengaged her Templar aura, using all her energy to catch the mage with the full force of her shield.

Harel quickly snapped out of her trance as she moved to dodge the blow, rolling to the side before hopping backwards towards the grand hall’s stairs again. The Seeker frowned as she saw her trying to gain the higher ground once more and charged, cutting off her ascent with the swing of her sword. The Herald tried to tilt her body away from the upward slash but her arm was caught in its wake, smacking straight into the underside of her forearm. Harel could practically feel the bruise forming.  
  
“Nugfuckingshittingassfuck!” Harel said as she held her arm in her hand, slowing her breath so she could focus a healing aura.  
  
Instead, another sword slash had her leaping back.  
  
“GUARD UP, ADAAR!” the Seeker commanded.  
  
Mythal, everything was a fucking order with this woman.  
  
Hopping back to give herself space to cast, the elf raised a glowing fist as Cassandra charged again, annoyance in her eyes.  
  
The Seeker hated training with the Inquisitor, she was too jumpy and often fought at a distance like a damn fly buzzing around a cow’s tail. But flies could be swatted, they just had to land first.  
  
It was supposed to be a Veilstrike, a solid clout from the Fade smashing right down on the dear Nevarran. Instead, she felt the Anchor throb in her palm, its power growing in her veins. Harel tried to fight through the crackling in her bones, reaching out her hand to-  
  
**_A dog, vicious, angry lashing out its jaws, latching to her leg._ ** _  
_ _  
_ She screamed.  
Falling backwards, losing her footing.  
She tried to catch herself but she felt her senses leave her as her head met the stairs.  
  
It was a wicked lash, knocking the lights from her eyes, blackening her vision for a second before the rest of the steps proceeded to beat the shit out of her. The world fell away in a circular blur of pain as she continued down the stone, hitting every possible part of herself on the steps.  
  
As she reached the bottom, she tried to bring her head up, her ears ringing. Cassandra was shouting but muffled, drowned out by the sound.  
  
Boots hitting the ground, people gasping but she couldn’t raise her head. Eyes spinning, breathing shallow, the veins on her arm standing starkly with a greenish tinge.  
  
Cassandra moved to help the mage, bellowing for the surgeon. _Blood_ , she thinks as she feels a drop land in her eye.  
  
Dizzy, aching, crushed. The nerves in her palm burning.  
  
She looks to the sky, marked hand raising up as she sees something in her mind through the encroaching darkness.  
  
A creature swirling in the Fade; greenish rocks framing its form as it turns its gleaming black eyes to her.  
  
_Hollowing, helpless, hurting Harel_  
  
A spark.  
Just a small green spark.  
Fizzling on the black earth of the Fade.  
  
It’s the last thing she sees before she knocks out.

* * *

  
She hears the fire before she wakes up. Crackling and bubbling, cloth moving. Harel shifts in the sheets to sit up, groaning slightly as she feels the pain in her head grow. Exhaling a deep breath, she opens her eyes but the light is too bright. She hears something or someone, the clinking of cups, the pouring of liquid but her eyes are still blinking against the light.   
  


She decides to keep them shut.  
  
Harel remembers the tumble down the stairs and what she saw. The memory of the dog had caught her so off guard that she just…  
  
It felt so real. Like she was right back there in the Clan, the grass under her feet, the scent of dirt, the foam curling off the dog’s jaws.  
  
And that fucking _creature_ in the Fade.  
  
There’s footsteps growing closer, then a hand fussing with the bandage on her head.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Josephine says softly, “They say you had an accident on the field and…” the hand moves away to rest on the mage’s shoulder, “I was worried something terrible had happened.”  
  
“Cassandra managed to land a blow,” the Inquisitor croaked, cringing at how her voice broke, “But I would say the stairs gave me the harder beating.”  
  
The mattress dips as the Ambassador seats herself against Harel’s legs. She tries to open her eyes and the hazy room becomes clear, bringing up a hand to ward off the light before looking forward.  
  
The Lady was _fucking_ worried.  
  
Harel sees her reach for a cup, offering it to her.  
The scent hits her immediately, her sense of smell now starting to reassert itself.  
  
Seheron tea.  
  
A hand brushes the hair from her forehead, then moving up towards her horn as she takes a sip.  
  
It’s hot enough to scald so she drinks carefully. Spicy, earthy tea that has the barest hint of sweetness. The flavour coats her tongue as she thinks of what to say.  
  
Nails begin to rake over a line of black bone, lulling her, calming her till the words line up in her head.  
  
She appreciates Josephine’s communicative skills; instead of pushing for an answer, she waits till she receives what she’s meant to hear instead of some garbled, rushed response.  
  
“I...I haven’t been completely well,” she pauses for a moment forcing the words out of her, “...and I think it’s getting worse,” eyes lowered with a touch of shame, “Ever since I stepped out of the Fade, I believe I’ve...well...this is going to sound fucking mental but...I feel like I left a part of me in the Fade. That or something’s been eating at me. Maybe a demon, Maybe three.”  
  
Josephine furrows her brow at the mention of this problem, she listens intently with one hand constantly clenching.  
Here it was.  
The look in her eyes.  
Harel tries to fend off the serious tone of the conversation with humour but it just falls flat.  
  
Josephine moves her hand from the Qunari’s horn to rest on the grey hand sitting above the covers, mug in hand, a thumb running along the lightly scarred skin. The Ambassador's other hand comes to rest on Harel's head again, combing gentle fingers through strands of white hair.  
  
“It was bad before but now...well...I’m seeing things so that’s just fucking great,” she raises her head, green eyes tired and contemplative, “It felt so real...”  
  
Harel expected judgement. A distancing at the thought of a maddening mind, a sudden disinterest in being with her.  
  
She expected Josephine to shame her.  
  
But instead of disgust, she found support.  
  
“Would the rebel mages know anything about this?” there's a silence before she continues, “Is there anyone? I could send a letter to the College of Magi. We could consult Dorian. Perhaps Solas? He is an expert on matters of the Fade and you have a stellar rapport with him.”  
  
The words caught her off-guard, the legitimate worry weaving into each question.  
It surprised the horned elf.  
Someone was willing to stand by her despite everything.  
She thinks of the bridge in Haven, the care, the genuine anger and sighs.   
  
Of course, she would.  
  
Harel reached upwards for the hand on her head as she held it tightly to her chest, the crackling green of the Anchor thrumming with the old songs.  
  
“Solas.” comes a quiet affirmation, then a groan, ”Adamant is right on our doorstep so I really can’t afford to have my magic acting up. It’s literally my only weapon” Harel stares into her teacup, the reflection showing nothing but green eyes.  
  
The hand in her Anchored palm moves to lace fingers between hers.  
  
**_Delicate like a flower. Her bones would be too easy to break._ ** **_  
_ ** **_  
_ ** Harel yanks her hand away, unknotting her fingers from Josephine’s grasp, her eyes wide with fright. The Anchor glowed once more, the magic lighting up her veins again.  
  
A throbbing pain in her head washed through her expression before her paramour could comment, making her groan and place the marked palm to her forehead.  
  
“I will get the healer,” the Ambassador said matter of factly.  
  
But she’s stopped by the same Fade gifted hand, pulling at her golden ruffles with desperation.  
  
“No, no, stay, please.” Harel said through her teeth, her eyes opening just barely to look at the Antivan, “Please…”  
  
Before the first _no_ escaped the Inquisitor’s mouth, Josephine had already sat back down, her hand weaving back through the grey fingers. There is nothing but the fire to fill their thoughts. Nothing but the wind against the doors to fill their silence. Nothing but the wound and the creeping madness to fill Harel’s mind.  
  
Though when she opens her eyes, the Herald sees the sinking expression, the cogs working, the golden rings shining in the firelight as she’s silhouetted by the flame.  
  
Frowning, fretting, falling.  
  
As much as she loved Seheron tea, she couldn’t bring herself to drink any more than a sip. She places the mug back on the nightstand, squeezing the hand laced in hers, the sound of her heartbeat in her ears.  
  
_Kost_ _  
_ _  
_ Grounding, grappling, graceful.  
  
Her eyes are closing but she’s afraid to dream.  
  
The sanctuary has become a cage, the paper walls falling as she sees the smile of Desire pressing against her mind.  
  
A Rift has opened in her head and all she sees are demons.

* * *

  
That grumpy fuck Cabot was a damn difficult man to please.  
No jokes, not even a pity laugh.  
He just leans over the bar and watches the tavern like an old mule begrudgingly eating grass.  
  
That’s why the gift surprised her.  
  
From the moment she took a tumble down the stairs, the people of Skyhold banded together which included all the cantankerous fucks on the compound.  
  
Harel just wished he hadn’t sent his gift with Sera.  
  
She’s been loud, eating everything in sight and crawling all over her bed like a puppy with fleas.  
  
The healers tried their best with her head, alleviating the concussion and fixing her bruises before leaving her with a small but palatable headache.  
  
_“I heard you studied Vir Atish’an.” the elven healer told her, “I mean no offence when I say this but why have you not healed yourself, Inquisitor?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Harel was to answer but the hand on her lacerated head made her flinch. Mana spiralled off her skin, stitching the flesh together then plunging deeper to heal any internal maladies._ _  
_ _  
_ _Looking to her marked hand, the Inquisitor knew damn well why. If she couldn’t control her magic then she didn’t trust herself at all. A healing aura could quickly turn into a spike of flame, killing her before she had a chance to react._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Mmmm,” the Qunari replied, taking in the comforting light, “ Maybe it’s because I have more faith in your abilities than mine,” a small smile appears on the Herald’s face, “You_ **_are_ ** _one of our better Spirit mages.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _The healer gives a small breath of laugher, “I see the rumours of your charming tongue are true,” releasing her grip on the mage’s head to rub a salve on her forehead, “It’s comforting to know our leader is still able to jest in these trying times.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Ma serannas, Lethallan.” the Qunari elf replies._ _  
_ _  
_ **“Pffffffbbbttt.”**  
  
Harel could always count on Sera to bring her out of her head.  
  
The city elf had taken to eating a pie someone sent, crumbs flying all over the sheets, syrupy fruits coating her lips.  
  
“People are sendin’ you the best shite. A shame you're not eatin’ any. Your loss, Elfy,” Sera spoke through a mouthful of crumbs, “Got any drinks?”  
  
Harel sat up straighter, motioning to the fruity wine on her bedside table, “Cabot sent this. He thinks a sweet, pansy wine would be light enough to not send me spinning around Skyhold.”  
  
Putting down the pie tin, the Red Jenny moved to grab the bottle, pushing her body over the Herald’s and pressing a hand into the Qunari’s stomach to support her stretch.  
  
“You little fucking prick,” Harel griped as she moved to shove the elf off her.  
  
Another raspberry was her only reply; wine in hand, retreating quickly as if she never squashed the Inquisitor in the first place.  
  
Harel watched as the archer wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before clamping her teeth on the wine cork, pulling it out with one swift jerk.  
  
“Cheaters don’t get dibs but a tipple for a sickie is fine. Juss this once though,” Sera chided, “I don’t want people thinkin’ I’m a softie or nuthin’.”  
  
The Qunari was about to ask ‘ _what people, we’re alone’_ , but instead shook her head at the offer.  
  
She didn’t feel like retorting today.  
  
Shrugging her shoulders, the city elf started funnelling wine into her bottomless pit of a stomach.  
  
Though she wanted to laugh at Sera’s antics, she couldn’t, her eyes drooping and snapping back awake. Looking at the fire, she could see shapes taking form.  
  
A wolf stared back at her, daring her to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
It only took a day or so to have the Inquisitor in a somewhat fit state. She needed to rest, as the healer kept reminding her, but she slept less and less now. Though she often walked about the Keep in her sleepless states, they were never as bad as now. The Cook had tried to foist some calming tea on her one night but the Qunari elf simply smiled and bade her goodnight, making her way to the Stables. Her eyes began to show the strain but her expression hid everything from view.  
  
One night as the terrors came upon Josephine, the Herald did as she normally would. She roused from her little slumber, grasping tight to the Lady’s fighting form, whispering quiet reassurances in Qunlat.  
  
**Press your arms together and crush her ribs.** **  
** **  
** Harel had let go within the instant, the Anchor glowing, its magic flickering like shadows off a spinning wheel. Green eyes were wide as she heard the quiet whimpers looking to turn into screaming.  
Something in her stirred at the sight. Something that held her arms down, stilling her limbs, making her watch the suffering unfold.  
  
**The balcony door is open, let her fall.** **  
** **  
** The elf pressed her hands to her ears even though the voice was coming from inside her.  
  
She bites her lip to stifle the voice, drawing a bead of blood from her flesh. Her hands move to apply pressure to her temples then move to her paramour's restless form.  
  
Closing her eyes, she takes a breath, pulling air deep within her system before opening them to try and calm Josie.  
  
Her hands squeeze down, cartilage and bone crunching effortlessly in her grip, the struggling stops, grey eyes wide open, tawny hands pulling at strong fingers wrapped around her throat.  
  
A silent scream is on the Qunari’s breath, hands flung to cover her mouth as Josephine takes sharp gasps of breath before her eyes glaze over. Jumping out of bed, scrambling, landing on the floor, her hands shaking, the mark buzzing, crackling as she looks at the dead woman in her bed.  
  
Harel covers her eyes, nausea cresting in her throat before escaping her body entirely, coating the stone in a fresh patch of bile.  
  
**Good.** **  
** **  
** The Wolf had killed the Lady.  
Just like she killed the dog.  
  
The start of a scream erupts from her throat, like a manic wolf howling to a moon that wasn’t there, mourning, enraged, terrified. Tears drop in an unending stream as she feels her breath halting. Through the waves of grief, she felt something else shoot through her.  
  
**Baying for blood like a demon.** **  
** **A desire to harm.**  
  
_HAREL!_ _  
_ _  
_ A tether.  
A leash.  
Pulling back but not to reprimand.  
To anchor.  
  
A thumb sweeps across the thin scar on her throat. The thumb turns into an index finger, tracing the line towards the back of her neck. One finger becomes four, cupping her neck as the scar wraps around in a full circle.  
  
At first, she was afraid to open her eyes, but the careful ministrations lured her back. A flutter of eyelashes, then her vision cleared, Josephine sat up in the bed, once again wearing concern.  
  
It was a face Harel saw too often these days.  
It hurt to know that she was the cause.  
But the hurt faded like a drop of water on a hot pan as the hollow rang out.  
  
“You started screaming in your sleep,” the Ambassador says with a serious tone at the sight of bloodshot green eyes.  
  
“Nightmare.” was all Harel said as she looked to her hands, anchor glowing in the dim light, “Looks like night troubles are contagious.”  
  
There’s an odd monotone to her voice even though she tried to make a joke. Harel closed her eyes, blocking her sight from the flames lest she sees something again.  
  
“It is not a joking matter,” the Antivan fretted before her tone grew quiet, “You’ve become so much worse since your training with Cassandra. Please, Harel, talk to me.”  
  
The Qunari flips her palm over to try and suffocate the green glow, “We’ll figure it out,” Harel replied, “Just go back to sleep.”  
  
“Harel-”  
  
“Go back to sleep.” the elf mutters, her tone far harsher than she intended, before correcting herself, “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to…”  
  
Josephine doesn’t reply.  
  
A dark hand holds the marked palm up, a thumb pulling grey fingers back to show the full span of the scar. Dark hair tumbles over the Inquisitor’s chest as Josephine rests her head on Harel’s shoulder, breathing a deep sigh. An arm weaves around the elf’s waist to pull her closer.

  
Harel’s lips quivered, a response to comfort dying on her tongue as she felt warm liquid seep into her nightshirt’s sleeve.  
  
Silent sobbing, a promise of destruction evident from the way the Anchor gripped her flesh. A hollow unfading sucking away at her.  
  
As green sparks danced off the horns and hands of the quiet Inquisitor, they each felt the presence thrumming in their soul and knew not what to make of the feeling other than to despair.  
  
She wanted to pull the Lady close.  
But the dreams still latched tightly.  
  
Josephine had seen the bandaged Herald brought to the surgeon, her eyes hazy and fleeting.  
  
The elf healed fully yet she remained broken.  
The person she held closely, staring directly at the flames, was indeed Harel.  
  
And yet somehow, she was not.  
  


* * *

  
Since the accident, Cassandra had been checking in on the Qunari elf periodically, discussing everything from her health to poetry. The Seeker was surprised to know how much human literature the woman had consumed knowing her roots.  
The Seeker sat at her normal spot as Harel lay in the grass, eyes to the sky. The plucky elf had not returned to the courtyard since the injury but once she was well enough to move, that was the first place she found herself.  
  
One would think nothing happened; that the dots of blood on the stairs didn’t exist, that the gouged ground in front of the great hall’s stairs was just part of the scenery.  
  
Like ashes carried by the wind, it was gone.  
On some people’s tongues, it remained.  
But mostly gone.  
More important things to do.  
  
  
" _Though love I was, your passion's changing fire, has forged this spirit into cruel_ _Desire_ _._ ” the Qunari recited, head lifting off the ground to watch the Seeker, “Back in Wycome, I helped some farmers, they didn’t care what I was once I worked. They couldn’t pay me so the man gave me a book of Tevine poetry.” she kicked her leg, sending a dust cloud flying, “He used to be a Tevinter-born slave so the passages were translated. Read the fuck out of it.”  
  
Harel enjoyed talking to Cassandra. She gave good advice and never judged her. She could be a bit prickly and standoffish, yes, but she was still fun to needle with questions.  
  
“Were there many books kept in your Clan?” the Seeker asked innocently, trying not to offend.  
  
Harel sat up, hands flat against the dirt, “Elvhen writings yes, human books, no. That Tevine book was the first one I ever kept. Once I went along with the Valo-Kas, any book we found, I read as quickly as I could, only keeping my favourites since we were always on the move.” her expression changed to a wistful mask, “I lost that book in the Conclave but the Inquisition is big, I can always get a new one.”  
  
Though she didn’t say it, the Seeker understood the elf missed her book. It was easy to read the woman as she wore her heart on her sleeve.  
Even when she tried to hide.  
  
“And that poem is your favourite? I confess it is not very,” Cassandra shrugs, “impassioned. Though it makes sense,”, a smirk, “Other than Solas, I have never seen one as bound to the Fade as you.”  
  
“Careful Seeker, I think I see a smile.” the damn elf japes, “and we all know what happened the last time you cracked a grin.”  
  
Neither wanted to think of Haven, but kept the memory burning with a torch of joy instead of pain.  
_Internal anguish_ , two words that made the Nevarran lift herself off her seat to offer a hand to the mage.  
  
“How are you feeling? When you fell and awoke, I was summoned to the War Table,” Cassandra speaks carefully as the horned elf clasps a hand to hers, lifting up, “You speak of troubling things, Inquisitor. This degradation has reared its head at an inopportune time. We must see to it before we are to assault Adamant Fortress.”  
  
The Herald stretched her arms out, lithe muscles bunching under her grey skin, “I’m going to harass Solas, see what he says before I lose my fucking mind,” she claps the Seeker on her armoured shoulder, “I’ll be fine, have no fear.”  
  
The Qunari speaks jauntily but it does nothing to assuage Cassandra’s upset.  
  
Green eyes looked down at the Nevarran, the redness around her eyelids hard to miss.  
  


* * *

  
After conversing with Solas, the Inquisitor left his quarters with more questions in her head than answers.  
  
He had poked and prodded her with various forms of magic, staring deep into her eyes, even asking her to sleep at one point so he may wander her dreams. Though she was reluctant, the memory of tears clinging to her shoulder spurred her into an uneasy rest.  
  
She didn’t remember her venture to the Fade, only bare snippets of her journey was recalled, hazy at best. Normally she was a lucid dreamer, a Somniari who wandered the Fade but now she dreamed as any mage without lyrium does.  
  
Her lack of dreams should have disturbed her yet she only felt a quiet disruption that didn’t make its way to her expression.  
  
Her eyes snapped open to look over the rotunda, a hand shaking her awake, and Solas’ answer of “I will need to study this further” as her alarm.  
  
So much for that.  
  
Instead of sitting around or fucking around with a staff, Fen’Harel Adaar decided the best way to chase away her troubles was to plunge into work. She had taken off into a run, jumping down the grand hall’s steps before skidding towards Cassandra, the only words on her lips being,  
  
“READY?!”  
  
The Seeker met the elf with a roll of her eyes, a snort of laughter and a question.  
  
“Care to elaborate?”  
  
Nothing more than a wide grin plastered on the horned elf’s face was her reply.  
Any wider and Harel could have been mistaken for an Orlesian mask.  
  


* * *

  
They stood, caked in blood, pacing Caer Oswin, waiting for more bastards of the Fiery Promise to creep out of the woodwork. They ran through stone hallway after stone hallway, searching for the Seekers but only turning up dead ends and Promisers. 

Cole scouts ahead because of course he does.  
Harel doesn’t go anywhere without that boy.  
  
Green shimmers skate past Cassandra’s eyes as the Spirit breaks into a sprint, running forward unseen with his daggers drawn lest another foe appears.  
  
Her sword dripping with a fresh kill, Cassandra shook the blade, allowing spatters to drench the stone.  
  
The only slightly clean ones in the group were Dorian and Harel.  
  
“Savages, the whole lot of them, Inquisitor,” Dorian spoke as he scrubbed the gore from his robe, “All they do is hit things till they burst and bathe in the stinking residue.”  
  
A small towel comes to wrap around her horns as she speaks, “Agreed, Lord Pavus. You’d think these brigands were Qunari with the way they slather blood on their skin like Vitaar.” a small laugh from the elf, “Savages, the lot of them.”  
  
“I am right here.” the Seeker growls as blood drips from her shield.  
  
Dorian and Harel exchange a look before he winks at the Nevarran, “It would be a shame if our lecture fell on deaf ears, you know.”  
  
“Especially when you’re one of the offending parties, Cass.” the Herald spoke, finishing Dorian’s sentence.  
  
The Seeker turned to face the cackling pair, “Are you two quite finished?”  
  
Shaking out the ash from her head, the Inquisitor stops, looks to Dorian and then laughs once more, causing the Tevinter mage to follow suit. Cassandra narrows her eyes at the duo while looking at the archway for danger.  
  
“Ok, now we’re done,” the apostate said as she placed the towel in her pouch.  
  
Steady steps, wisps of green and Cole makes himself known as best as he could.  
  
It wouldn’t do to have the Seeker slay him for surprising her.  
  
“No one.” he says slowly, black hat tilted up to show his eyes, “Clear and quiet but thrumming, throbbing, threatening. Hurting?...” he perks up, pointing upwards, “That way.”  
  
The boy who’s often forgotten disappears, but not from the minds of those who knew him.  
  


* * *

  
The blade cut swiftly across the man’s throat, a stream of blood gushing then spraying as he coughed. They stood respectfully as the Seeker held her sword loosely in her hand, Daniel’s last breaths panting softly over his armour.  
  
Cole muttered, not wanting to disturb the Nevarran but still prattling to catch her ear. Though she held no real friendship with the Spirit, she felt a stoic comfort as the last words tumbled from his mouth.  
  
“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the Champions of the Just.”  
  
His tone was soft and solemn as he felt nothing but the Seeker’s stirring emotions. He wanted to allay the question that lunged around in Cassandra’s chest but he knew now was not the time. What was faith worth when everything crumbled at the slightest touch? It all fell away so quickly; he felt the turning and tumbling inside of her soul. Though no one else could see it, a small candle of belief burned within her chest, its blazing grip nothing more than a hope to see this task completed.  
  
And though the cold winds of reality often blew at the candle, nothing seemed to come close to wavering its flame.  
  
“The Lord Seeker’s got some explaining to do,” Harel said, eyes looking upwards but seeing you nothing, “We can give him a proper burial when this is all done…”  
  
Cassandra’s sword trembled as the last of her Apprentice’s blood dripped off the tip.  
  
For once, she did not feel peace at the fact that her beliefs were held closely. Staring at the gaping throat of her once-living friend, she knew that the path she walked down would end in the Lord Seeker’s removal.  
  
No man with an ounce of care in his heart for his people would subject this fetid torture upon the innocent.  
  
The clinking of armour and the sound of burning torches brought them all back to the world. It was no time to mourn, she could do that later.  
The Inquisition would sweep through the Caer once they finished, retrieving Daniel’s body so he may be given his proper Andrastian rights.  
  
And yet, as she turned to face her companions, nothing but green eyes staring through black eyelashes was her answer to the questions in her mind.  
  
The Inquisitor only gave silence instead of comfort.  
  
There was a familiar feeling to the mage but Cassandra couldn’t place it.  
A stoicism.  
A cavernous stoicism.  
  
Cole was the first to walk forward as if trying to guide; a duckling leading its siblings after the death of their mother. Everyone normally took their place behind the white-haired Qunari but she simply fell back to Dorian’s side.  
  
It was his turn now, Compassion trying to forge a way forward even though everyone stood with their souls burning out.  
  
A pious Seeker questioning her faith.  
A snarky Tevinter mage battling his own demons.  
  
And a Qunari elf who stood upon the precipice of change, waiting to leap though she had no wings.  
  


* * *

  
She brought Dorian because she trusted him.  
With her magic acting up, she knew that if she faltered, he would be there to cast static cages and immolate enemies without her needing to tell him.  
  
Though she enjoyed having Solas around, he was more of a tactical fighter, his barriers strong and his fire mines set like a chess game.  
  
But she needed someone who would crush, not contemplate. Someone who twisted the Veil for simple reasons without thinking of every battlefield possibility.  
  
She needed immediacy in action.  
  
He noticed it during their fight with the Lord Seeker, Harel’s hand clenched to throw a spike of Fade rocks, only to morph into fire, then dissipating into a spine of ice. Ducking an arrow, she flung the spike, catching a Promiser in the knee, pinning his position before Cassandra took his head clean off.  
  
Cole was fishing his dagger from a man’s throat when that happened, his eyes closing briefly as if sensing pain.  
  
It’s all well and good that he could sense the emotions of others but that little distraction nearly cost Cole his left arm. It was a powerful Veilstrike that crushed the offender into a red paste, more vicious and offensive than any spell had the right to be.  
  
The woman had shaken the sweat from her brow after the fight as her companions watched her apply pressure to her palm.  
  
Yet they said nothing.  
  
Though painted by blood and limbs, the top of Caer Oswin was a magnificent place of lush grass and blooming flowers. The Seeker knelt to her superior, his face proving his death.  
  
Limp, lifeless, listless.  
  
She felt the tome in her pouch, the secrets within smothered between worn pages. Did the Seeker’s deserve to be brought back? Did everything she fought for even matter? Did _anything_ matter?  
  
She thinks of Anthony, a blade drawn to run across his throat, a scream on her lips as her brother was cut down. She thinks of Daniel and the Lord Seeker. She thinks of every man and woman to meet her blade, the rampant vehemence in her killing spreading blood further and further across her heart.  
  
And then a hand, turning her around, green eyes staring with kindness, bringing her back to the rustling of trees in an empty Keep littered with bodies.  
  
“Ready?” Harel says softly.  
  
The Seeker sees the eyes she knew in Haven, the idiotic thing spinning around a War Table while she was being introduced.  
She thinks of the Inquisition, of their leader, of their cause.  
  
Cooling the poison in her mind, Cassandra regains herself, remembering the good they’ve done and will continue to do.  
  
The Nevarran nods before moving away.  
  
They walk to the stronghold’s exit, a pilgrimage back to Skyhold awaiting them, a contemplative journey with only the promise of hope to propel them.  
  
  


* * *

The pressure helped to keep her sane, weighing her down before her thoughts drifted.  
  
Time reflected a scene, a mirror image of what once happened. But now it was the future and Harel was reminded of the memory as it overlapped with her current situation on the couch.  
  
She lay underneath the Ambassador who pressed her ear to her cotton shirt, listening for the heartbeat she found herself returning to. Dark hands rested on her shoulders, short nails gently scoring the fabric of her cotton nightshirt. A hand capable of so much death trailed gently over a lock of hair, following the path down the Lady’s back.  
She craved the companionable air, the crackle of the flames.  
The moment was so peaceful she found herself calling Desire’s name again, knowing her memories could easily be plundered and twisted.  
  
Especially considering the current events.  
  
She refused to acknowledge the flare of her magic, the change in its flow as she casted in Caer Oswin. The sharp sting of pain she saw flood Cole’s face had her worried before her mind emptied in order to save his life.  
  
She gulped down the memory as her hand moved back up Josephine’s spine, dipping into black hair before reaching the back of her neck.  
  
She could hear the voice in her head, whispering poisonous thoughts into her mind, showing her little snippets of what could be done, torturing her.  
  
But she couldn’t keep Josephine in the dark.  
She remembered the tears.  
  
Communicate, Harel.  
  
“That night, when I had that night terror,” she paused again, shoving her ego and fears away, “I dreamt you were having one...I tried to stop you as usual..I closed my eyes for one second...only to see I crushed your throat instead. It was so real, your eyes, the...sounds….” Harel belted out in a forced breath.  
  
The hands on her shoulders stilled. Even the breath on top of her halted.  
  
A tawny hand came up to cup the Qunari’s cheek and the wolf too willingly leant into the touch.  
  
“How terribly violent…” Josephine whispered into the cotton, no undertones of judgement present, “but thank you for telling me, Harel. You need not feel reserved when it comes to nightmares,” she brushed a thumb against the grey skin, “I understand them all too well.”  
  
Harel ran her fingers through the black hair once more, her breath slowing to accommodate the change in her mood. She used the warmth to press the thoughts from her mind, to shatter them as they came, to ground her and sink her body into the present.  
  
A glow, soft at first, then wrapping around the Inquisitor's body, a shroud of green enveloping the two like a very fine mist. Translucent as the magic which spilt from a Rift, a soft light poured from the mage’s skin.  
  
Like the day Harel confessed.  
Like their dance in the Winter Palace.  
  
Like a time in Haven when laughter was a balm on tired souls.  
  
Josephine missed Harel’s laugh.  
  


* * *

  
“Again.”  
  
Once more, she drew her fingers together before curling them into a fist, calling a rock from the Fade with all of her energy.  
  
The stone coated her hand before disappearing; a perfect summons. No wavering of magic or otherwise.  
  
Solas watched the procession carefully, then asked her to do it again, this time with more urgency. Think battle, not quiet testing.  
  
Nodding her head, the elf quickened her breath, bouncing on the balls of her feet, imagining what Adamant’s siege would look like.  
  
Demons everywhere, legions of Pride demons looking to crush you underfoot, looking to steal your body.  
  
Feeling the mana surge within her blood, she did the motion again, summoning a sharp spike of Fade rock before it burst into flames, falling uselessly on the stone floor.  
The bald apostate watched carefully before grabbing Harel’s Anchored hand. Sure enough, the mark was glowing as if responding to the scene.  
  
“It appears your Rift mage abilities have melded with the Anchor. When you summon these powers in a dire situation, the change within your mana is enough to destabilize the magic entirely.” Solas said, releasing the palm to move towards his desk, “Know that your mark is versatile. What Corypheus used to open the heavens, you use to close,” he rifles through a sheaf of papers, glancing over each word, “It can also connect. Form a bridge of sorts, if you will.”  
  
Harel took in the counsel with folded arms, “What does this mean, Hahren?”  
  
Thoroughly focused on the parchments in his hand, his lips moving silently as he took in each word. A look of confusion, then contemplation, then an answer washing over his face. It was hard to tell whether the conclusion made was good or bad.  
  
“It means that something is pursuing you,” he says quietly, “This thing has hunted you since your first venture to the Fade, though its connection to you was weakened once you stepped out. Now, however, you use the power of the Rifts as your weapon, drawing forth the essence of the Fade, thus making you easier to find.”  
  
He puts the papers down before pacing away, hands behind his back, eyes staring holes into the horned elf, “I know not what it wants but it has you in its grip.”  
  
“Is this thing a demon? Is it trying to possess me?” the Qunari replies, a nervous finger digging into her palm.  
  
Solas doesn’t answer at first, ensuring his words are chosen properly, “It may very well be. Though I do not believe it is possession considering the games it plays. All I can say is its intent is sinister.”  
  
He gestures at the mark, a hand waved carelessly in its direction, “There is good news however, As I said before, the mark is a bridge. Though something chases you, something shields you as well. The consistency of the glow coupled with the surge of Spirit magic pouring from it proves that something is indeed reaching out to you as a protective force.”  
  
Black eyebrows lowered as the mage thought over the words.  
Something is trying to protect her?  
If it is, it’s doing a piss poor job of it.  
  
“And my hallucinations? I’m having nightmares and daymares,” she runs her hands through her hair, digging nails into her scalp, “ Literal waking fucking nightmares like wolves in my **fucking** fireplace and the dog that tried to kill me as a kid.”  
  
“Perhaps a Fear demon then?” the apostate narrows his eyes in thought, pacing again, “Your-”  
  
Before Solas could finish his thinking out loud, green sparks began cascading off the Inquisitor's arms, jumping from her horns and disappearing in mid-air.  
  
The thoughts were pushed from the elven mage’s head as he quickly stepped forward to grab the Qunari’s hand.  
  
Hollowing, hurting, like a stone rattling down a well’s walls, noises coming up to the top before vanishing into the air. Travelling deeper and deeper till it reaches the bottom though it still had a ways to go. She felt nothing and everything, a vicious switch of emotions not reliant on when, where or why. Something was sipping on the well, draining it dry.  
  
From everything to nothing and the circle went round and round.  
  
Yanking his hand away, Solas stared at the Herald who regarded him with a blank stare.  
  
The magic that allowed him to peer into Harel’s mind was...pure. Pure yet corrupted, fighting and fleeing though stalwart in its will to remain.  
  
Green sparks as if to remind the poor soul what feeling felt like.  
  
It was not her magic.  
He would need to look into it further.  
And fast.  
  
“Has this magic appeared while anyone was around you, Inquisitor?” Solas says as he picks up a quill to record his new findings.  
  
It takes a second for Harel to realize she was being questioned, her eyes looking up to the mage before clearing and clouding once more.  
  
“Josephine.” was her only reply, her only answer.  
  
He would need to gently question the Ambassador in regards to this magic. What she knew, felt, understood as a person disconnected from the Fade being given a doorway into the magic realm. It may help shed light on the Inquisitor's condition.  
  
As he takes notes, a door slams in the hallway. There is an expectant air to the apostate, then he abandons his work to look to the rigid Qunari elf.  
  
“I would associate steel nerves to our Seeker, not to you, Herald,” he says with a curious tone, “Normally your own are akin to a frightened nug.”  
  
He sees the woman breathe a laugh but watches the movements carefully.  
Performing as was expected of her.  
  
“Maybe I just can’t be surprised anymore,” the Qunari replies as she looks to the apostate with a smile, “After Corypheus dropped an Archdemon on my face, I don’t think anything can take me off guard anymore.”  
  
Solas made a noise of acknowledgement before rifling through his desk again.  
  
Both elves remained quiet.  
  
Ears open, eyes open, everything but the heart is open.  
  
Leliana leans over the bannister as she focuses her attention to the conversation below. She didn’t hide any part of her presence from the elf, making her eavesdropping blatant.  
  
It was a slow movement, but the Inquisitor finally took notice of the Spymistress, her green eyes catching the light in the Rookery’s open roof.  
  
The world reflected back in the Qunari’s eyes. Leliana could see the mage’s expression even from the distance she stood.  
  
The Mistress stared back just as hard but the woman never faltered.  
  
It was an unnerving experience but only for one.  
And that person was not Harel.  
  


* * *

  
The blood had long since dried and decayed. Harel stepped over the stones where she fell, paying no mind to the trauma of that moment. Skyhold had come to see her off, their preparations for Adamant made.  
  
Their assault was finally put in motion.  
Harel tugged on the leather of her new armour, ensuring its fit was nothing but the best.  
  
And what a fit it was.  
  
Brilliant blood-red tapered to her chest as it flared out into a spiked cloak, lines of black drawing their way up and down her body.  
  
The obsidian full arm plating caught the sun’s rays as she walked to Skyhold’s entrance, pointed boots leaving thin marks in the dust.  
  
It hugged her body, pushing it forward yet not restricting her movement.  
  
Indeed, ‘The Skin that Stalks’ was truly a perfect name for this intriguing armour.  
  
Her ears twitched as she heard a sound no other can hear. The grating, grasping nauseating need of Cullen’s lyrium withdrawal came closer with every clinking shuffle of his armour.  
  
_“If you’re not-”_ _  
_ _  
_ _He cut her off, wiping the sweat from his brow, “I have suffered worse. I promise this will not cut into my ability for the siege.”  
  
_

_Harel had watched him with concern, green eyes giving his paling face a once over. The damn Ferelden bastard was so stubborn, even when he was neck-deep in his personal fights._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Alright, alright,” the elf said in a pacifying tone, “Be that way, you grumpy bastard.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _A map marker is placed down, standing near the Western Approach. She smiles at Cullen, words falling from her mouth with ease._  
  
_“I’m going to stick my foot up those demon’s asses. Then I’m gonna explode the fuck out of them.” the smile widens, “Just try and possess me when you’re in pieces.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Josephine accepted the obscenities with a small grimace._ _  
_ _Leliana remains as stoic as ever, eyebrows raised with a modicum of interest._ _  
_ _Cullen is proud, determined, anxious and amused by her foul tongue._ _  
_ _  
_ _He will not let the craving conquer him._ _  
_ _  
_ Waiting at the Keep’s gate to depart, Alistair cracked his wrists, pushing a little too hard, making him yelp. He looked around to see if anyone noticed, wincing slightly as the Qunari elf approached with a knowing grin.  
  
Hawke watched with clear blue eyes as Varric claps a hand on his friend’s arm; afraid that the soaring bird will one day be shot down.  
It was time to go again and unfortunately, the dwarven rogue was not chosen to accompany them.  
  
If the Maker had any goodness in their fucking heart, He’d spare Hawke anymore suffering.  
  
Harel sauntered up to the group, her advisors flanking her as she readies herself. Her beautiful chocolate coloured stallion whinnies at the sight of her, moving against Dennet’s grip to bend his snout into her head. She pets the horse gently making sure that her gauntlets didn’t gouge the poor mount.  
  
Turning away, she sees blue and gold in her vision before stepping forward quickly, taking Josephine by surprise.  
  
As much as Leliana would love to comment, she would not stand in the way of an emotional departure.  
That didn’t stop her from frowning just a little at the display.  
Just a little.  
  
Harel pulls the Ambassador into a crushing hug, Bull hoots and hollers from the sidelines before Krem punches him. She cracks an eye open when she hears Bull grunt in surprise; Dalish looks away, her ‘bow’s’ glow receded from the storm magic she let off.  
  
A smile is cast towards her forest kin, a silent thanks for shutting the great beast up.  
  
Arms tighten around her, golden ruffles pressing into the hardened leather. She feels the green sparks cascading off her. A piece of the Fade, spiralling through the air.  
Anchored.  
  
_You will be fine._ _  
_ _  
_

* * *

  
He wasn’t the skulking sort though he watched with great care from the great hall’s landing, the place Harel became the Inquisitor.  
  
Green sparks fluttered off the crimson trimmings of the Qunari’s armour, the Anchor’s light drowned out by the sun’s glare.  
  
Solas thought of words, questions and answers he could have asked Wisdom before its demise. Now he must pretend as if it still lives, bouncing his questions back to himself in its voice.  
  
Bidding the Keep goodbye, the Herald leapt onto her mount, patting the horse's mane as they turned towards the bridge.  
  
In that moment, her eyes never looked clearer. _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H u h. What a ride. 
> 
> Translations? Translations:  
> Vir Atish'an- The Way of Peace aka Dalish Healing magic etc etc
> 
> If you played DAII, you may remember the precipice of change speech (Crush me under your pointed heel, Flemeth)
> 
> Oh almost forgot, the whole Tevene poetry thing was from that Codex, Spirits and Demons. Nice poem tbh
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. Love yall


	16. Faded for Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Losing control  
> Spiralling into the Void  
> She tried to keep her grip
> 
> And now she must pay the price for gaining its ire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there fuckers
> 
> Cole is my favourite character in the whole series. I need to read Asunder. He is the most fun to write imho

Grand Enchanter Fiona knew nothing.  
  
Granted, Harel’s condition was novel considering she was the second person in history to walk into the Fade. Still, it was disconcerting. Every mage, every enchanter, every single person she sent word to could only point her somewhere else, a question turning into more questions and never an answer.  
  
Josephine almost slammed her quill back into her inkpot. Instead, she took to sharply plunging the pen down, before putting her head in her hands.  
  
Two days had passed since the Qunari elf and her companions departed for Adamant.  
She so wanted Harel to take Solas with her but was only met with disagreements on both sides.  
The apostate needed to study the matter further. Though there would be time during their journey to the Westen Approach, he needed all of his resources and no distractions.  
  
Harel, on the other hand, placed her faith in Dorian to ensure she didn’t rely on her Rift mage skills; the two of them would be sure to rain fire and necromancy down on their enemies. That and she liked having the damn bastard around to keep her wits sharp.  
  
Leaning back in her chair, the diplomat stretched her arms over her head before looking at a missive from Solas.  
  
The man had taken to wandering away from Skyhold at times, using his own unknown ways to find a solution to the problem. During those expeditions, he’d send letters to the Ambassador, thoughts, rhetorical questions, things of interest that she could use when writing to the various magical experts.  
  
_“Wolves in the fireplace?” the Ambassador queried, wringing her hands as she paced the rotunda, “There was a time she came to me when her friend was to be buried. Those sparks you spoke of showed, as they often do now.” grey eyes sparkle with concern, “I too spied a wolf’s head in the flames.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _He was rebinding the leather grip of his staff while she spoke; the motions helping his thoughts to build. Nodding his head slowly, taking in the Antivan’s speech, he releases the leather spool._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I believe you saw a preemptive look into Harel’s spiral. The first small piece of her illusions.” he lifts himself from the couch, staff rolling onto the cushions, “There is a magic which connects you to her. What this magic is, I have yet to truly understand but it is innovative in every way.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _The words don’t really help quash any of Josephine’s misery._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Though it is interesting, it is proving to harm her far more than help. Can this connection be used to salvage her? The enchanters I contacted do not seem to have a clue as to what is going on.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _A sigh, harsh and quiet, comes from the apostate. He knows of the Fade but unique situations like this are not his speciality. It requires resources and time, only one of which the Inquisition could lend him._ _  
_ _  
_ _“I have looked into her dreams and found her blurring away, her form stuttering as if unaware. She does not respond to me despite being a Dreamer, a Somniari.” his jaw clenches before he continues, “It is dire that a solution is found before this vanishing reaches its peak.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _He folds his arms as the diplomat looks up into the Rookery to see Leliana leaning forward to catch the discussion. It’s midday and the sun cast its rays in such a way that the Spymistress hung like a shadow from the railing._ _  
_ _  
_ _A formless shape in the foreground of cages._

 _  
_ Her nail scrapes over the boat’s motto once again, before she pulls her hand away. A smile echoes in her mind, a chat by the fire, hands interweaved.  
  
The vellum underneath her begins to dirty, her hands flying over to her inkpot in surprise.  
  
Only to realize she hadn’t knocked over the glass pot; no ink stained the page.  
  
Just tears.  
  
Her vision blurred as the words on her page conjoined with the help of tears, blotting each response as she brought her hands up to muffle the beginning of a sob.  
  
Damn her Antivan blood.  
Damn it to the Void.  
  


* * *

  
It was the first time she used a staff successfully.  
  
Bull raced in after Cullen got his men to bust down the door, a legion of demons almost made him turn on his fucking heel. Dorian cast barriers on the team as Cole flew forth like an arrow shot from Bianca’s muzzle. Two Shades felt his Assassin’s touch, a mercy killing robbing the demons of life. Blades flew through the air as shadowed copies of himself leapt from every angle, cutting into the demons and sending their bodies back to the Fade.  
  
Harel stayed in the back, nearer to the Tevinter mage and Cullen. A Rage demon caught her eye and she felt its sting despite the distance. She got into stance, legs apart, arms out before the creature charged. Cobalt blue struck from above as Dorian kept it paralyzed in a static cage; Cullen’s shield rattled against his fist in a taunt.  
  
It couldn’t be held for long, those bastards were tough as Reaver Qunaris. Green eyes darted over the chaos as men fought Shades, some crawling away on shattered legs as others plunged blade and arrows into the writhing monsters.  
  
Kicking through a pile of items, she withdrew a common staff with one notable feature.  
  
A wickedly sharp-bladed end.  
  
“Cover me, I’m going in.” was all she said to Dorian, Fade Stepping forward before he could eke out a reply.  
  
The mana carried her quickly as she forced both storm and ice magic into her heels, running fast and far before cutting off her magic; the momentum of the stop propelling the blade deep into the Rage Demon’s chest. Before it could swipe its arm at her, she grabbed onto the iron with both hands, discharging the current from her body before it snaked its way into the metal, conducting and shocking the fucking tar out of the demon.  
  
It collapsed into ash, its red, hateful eyes and oozing flames crumbling into a fine powder before the charred metal clattered to the floor.  
  
Well shit, that seemed to work.  
  
A wolf whistle pierced through the din of war as she looked towards an open door, her body on edge, waiting for an enemy.  
  
Bull stood, axe in both hands as he looked around for more demons before grinning at the Vashoth.  
  
“Forget Saarebas, you’re a fucking Saarath!” he bellowed from the next doorway, “Keep killing the demons for me, Boss! Fucking hate ‘em.”

“The more you talk, the more demons we have to fight!” came the Qunari elf as she motioned for Cole to scout ahead, “Start swinging, you grey fuck!”  
  
Tipping his hat in a nod, the Spirit vanished past Bull who scrunched up his face at the show.  
  
He liked Cole, just not the things he did.  
Weird fucking magic demon not magic shit.  
  
Cullen took point, gathering his men into a charge to clear the Inquisitor an unfettered path.  
  
Dusting the demon ash from her armour, the Qunari kicked her way past the smouldering remains of the Rage Demon, her mind dipping into a quiet place, lightning sparking off her palms.  
  
Trailing black footprints on the sandy stones, Harel ran past Cullen’s men, Dorian following behind her, his eyes both everywhere and stuck to the mage’s palms lest she accidentally summons a rock from the Fade.  
  


* * *

  
Lungs burning, sweat stinging, and a fucking ARCHDEMON.  
  
Though she would love nothing more than to Fade Step her foot into Clarel’s and Erimond’s ass, she had to conserve her energy lest she dips into her life-force.  
  
Darting into the open hallway, she saw the fucking Archdemon hover outside the arched windows, its breath acrid against her body. Then a glint sparked from the darkness of its mouth; yellowed spikes of teeth jutting from a pocked and decaying maw.  
  
It was charging up its famous red lightning.  
Shit.  
  
Harel turned her head for a split second to shout a command to her followers, “EVERYONE DODGE!!!”  
  
If she was going to survive, she’d have to dip into her reserves. Summoning the rush of ice, she felt her feet pick up in speed, shoving past the demons before forcefully ripping a wave of magic from her being. Blue tendrils whipped past the Herald to shield her companions, coating them in a sheet of protective magic before the dragon blew its surge.  
  
Her knees felt weak, trembling as she collapsed on the stairway. She uncorked a bottle of Lyrium as the closest Terror demon caught a whiff of her, stalking close to her body. Hands shaking, she gulped the first mouthful of the liquid, raising her hand to shove a billow of flame in its direction.  
  
Leaning forward the demon shoved its unhinged jaw and black eyes towards her, not a single spark erupting from her body despite the lyrium.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Digging her nails into the sandy steps, she fished around her utility belt for her knife, ready to stab the fucker once she found it.  
  
But the demon turned away, as if disinterested.  
  
As if her terror didn’t spike ferociously enough, as if a mage, a Somniari was not good enough to possess.  
  
Within the second, Bull cleaved its gangly body in half, sending demon essence flying across the walls.  
  
Harel’s hands shook, her magic seemingly locked off despite not using any Rift mage abilities. Dorian lay his hands on her, healing her bruises as she stared at the Terror demon’s body.  
  
“Feeling alright?,” the Tevinter mage queried stressfully, “There’s an Archdemon in our ass right now so answer quickly, Inquisitor.”  
  
She nodded sharply, pulling herself off the ground not even bothering to wipe the blood, grime and dirt from her body. Summoning sparks, she felt her hands tremble but not as if she was low on mana.  
  
Suppressing the moment, she beckoned her group to follow her; Cole’s mouth opened to ask her a question but her back was already turned away before he could speak.  
  
She knew he was worried but they couldn’t afford to stop for too long.  
Clarel was getting away.  
  


* * *

  
“In death, sacrifice.”  
  
Slicing through the Archdemon with one powerful explosion of magic, Clarel was lost as the great beast skated over the bridge, attempting to claw its way back before falling. Scaly, decrepit wings stretched open as it used the drop to gain speed in its flight.  
  
Harel and her crew were not as lucky as the fucking dragon.  
  
Brick by brick, the stones fell away, collapsing into the long drop that awaited them. The Inquisitor started running as fast as she could, the shaky image of Bull sprinting away in her vision.  
  
Though she survived Haven, her Clan, her mercenary work and Corypheus, she didn’t expect her downfall to be a loose fucking stone.  
  
Her bootheel caught on a fractured brick, sending her face-first into what would have been the ground. Instead, a green scar across Adamant’s chasm lit her fall.  
  
The Anchor sounded off in her palm as she heard Dorian swear profusely as he dropped.  
  
_Know that your mark is versatile._ _  
__What Corypheus used to open the heavens, you use to close._ _  
__It can also connect. Form a bridge of sorts, if you will._ _  
__  
_ “Solas you bastard you better be fucking right,” Harel said through the wind against her face as she reached her palm out.  
  
Open, unlock, unhindered.  
  
Yanking her hand back, she tore the Rift open just in time.  
Any more and she would have passed the scar completely and made a lovely stain on the canyon floor.  
  
Dusty red raced past Harel’s eyes, switching quickly to dark, sickly green. The Black City hovered out of reach, spiralling rocks of the Fade flashing past her eyes as she continued to fall.  
  
Once again, Dorian screamed, then Bull, then….Alistair?  
  
The ground was fast approaching as she moved to cast a barrier, her fists glowing blue before she released the charge.  
  
Green eyes widened at the approaching black earth as her barrier fizzled away, the last thing she heard was Cole shouting her name.  
  


* * *

  
Sitting on her heels, her body frozen in place as black rocks swirled above her. She tried to move her arms but they were stuck to her sides even though nothing held them in place. The valley of the Fade, as horrifying as it was beautiful lay its various forms of gravity on her soul.  
  
A voice rang out from the unending green sky, mocking her, “Hello little wolf. Finally, I catch you in my snare, _”_ it laughs a deep, rancid chuckle, “You prove quicker than you let on, but you will not escape me this time.” it pauses as the black earth trembles, “I know where you are and I’ve tasted of your flesh once more. Know that you have been caught and it is your own hubris that led you back to me, _Rift Mage_.”  
  
  
She narrows her eyes, watching the world around her, the pull of the magic realm speaking dreams into her ears. As the lightning in her palms crackled green and vicious, she felt the wisps of the Fade, unhindered by the Veil, funnelling through her hands.  
  
She was in the Fade again, truly, honestly and physically in the Fade.  
  
Balance reasserts itself, the hollow within her body filling as she breathes the mana-laden air of the magic realm. The lightning grows, eyes glowing with power as her Anchor dances with wild magic; connecting herself to the world while forming an unseen shield against the voice’s influence.  
  
She’s heard the booming tone before, echoing off the walls of her mind, telling her to harm, telling her to maim.  
Trailing after her sleepless nights like a Hyena circling carrion.  
  
She feels Demons, clawing at her, the sparks holding back the deformed creatures pulling their way out of the ground.  
  
“Ahhhhh yes,” goes the voice in the sky, “Fight against the inevitable,” she begins to see something in the distance, tall and deformed, “But know that you’ve already failed, Fadewalker. I have you in my grasp. I will get what I want no matter what manner of magic tries to rip you from my hold.”  
  
Harel couldn’t form a response, the words too heavy in her mouth, her body pressed down by the Fade. She sees the arm of a Desire demon snake up from the black earth, a puddle of dark water as its entrance. A Pride demon’s arm, spiked and clawed hovers over her back before digging talons into her back, tearing cleanly through her flesh and lodging in her ribs.  
  
“If I do not catch you, they will.” it speaks, “Pray that you are lucky enough to be consumed by me.”  
  
She tries to move as the distant figure looms.  
The pain in her chest ringing out yet dampened as if she had no wounds.  
  
Then she sees the mist clear.  
A giant, flesh-toned spider.  
  
She tastes blood in her mouth.  
  


* * *

  
She’s being shaken back and forth, viciously yet without malice. Her eyes open slowly as the pain in her face becomes all too real.  
  
Green mist still swirls around her as her vision clears.  
  
“I swear, how many times must I damage my hand to bring you out of these dratted spells,” comes a voice, prickly and sarcastic.  
  
Dorian.  
  
Her hand grabs at the mage’s collar as if testing his physicality, Ring Velvet crushing under her fist, “Desire? Pride? Rage?” she rattles out the names of demons hoping to catch this one in the act.  
  
Dorian frowns, then releases a sharp laugh, “I’m flattered you think so highly of me, Inquisitor,” his hands glow to heal the bruise forming on her face, “But no, I’m not looking to eat your soul today. You had the unfortunate luck of landing straight into Demon City on your pretty little face.”  
  
“Why did it have to be fucking demons, Boss? Why did you just have to open that fucking hole in the sky and send us right into demon **fucking grrrrrr** …..” Bull grunts very, **very** unhappily.  
  
Harel looks around her, the world looking very much the same as she left it. Green rocks jutting out and around, the Black City looming overhead, the suppressed light of the Fade shining through dusky clouds.  
  
And Cole, opposite to her, kneeling, eyes wide, scrambling back as his mind hears her thoughts, listens to her dreams.  
  
He swallows, before speaking, “That’s the thing! That's it! Eating, ebbing, echoing inside! Inquisitor!,” he looks at the elf who’s bruised face began losing its wounds, “It’s found you, hunting you, sipping on your soul.”  
  
Harel rotates her shoulder to make sure it wasn’t damaged, “So he’s the one who’s been fucking me up?” she rolls her eyes, “Fucking great, just great.” the annoyance quickly turns to anger which she squashed under a forced calm.  
  
She couldn’t risk her emotions drawing an assload of demons to their position. Life was hard enough.  
  
“Yea, uh, whatever the fuck you two weird assholes are chatting about can wait because **we’re in demon town**.” Bull grinds out again.  
  
Swiftly, Harel pushes herself off the ground, green lightning crackling, merging with the Fade, “Ok you horned bitch, we’re moving along. Happy now, Imekari?”  
  
If Bull wasn’t so stressed out about being in the place he feared his entire life, he'd try and defend his honour. Instead, he grunted, one eye scanning the never-ending horizon.  
  
His blatant fear was bound to attract demons.  
  
No one was happy to be in the Fade.  
  
But in the back of her mind, Harel felt the land soothe her, filling her, washing the pain of whatever the fuck latched onto her.  
  
The words of that nightmarish creature still rang in her ears but she would not let it have her.  
  
Cole puts his hand on her shoulder, sensing her disquiet. They both feel the invisible tendrils of the Fade swipe at their feet, trying to pull them in but ignore its presence as best as they could.  
  
He pushes her forward, like she once did, a grounding hand to guide in the land he once roamed.  
  
_We will be fine._ _  
__  
_

* * *

  
Night has long since fallen on Skyhold when the troupe returns. The guards clap their fists to their chests as they ride their mounts to the stable. No one speaks amongst the companions, no one speaks to Harel.  
  
She’s kept the Wardens despite everything, despite the corruption and the hatred. Despite the way they’re looked at now and she hopes desperately in her mind that she’s made the correct choice.  
  
She pats her mount’s nose gently, a chocolate coloured stallion who breathes softly on her gloved fingers. Harel presses her forehead to the horse’s snout, recollecting herself in the presence of this beautiful beast.  
  
Her mind wanders as there’s no energy to hold the leash on her thoughts no longer. She thought of the Divine, a mirror image of the woman presented in the Fade. There was no way she could have lived in the realm of dreams yet there she was. A Spirit of Faith who helped them, who sacrificed themself to help them combat that dratted fucking spider.  
  
_Sacrifice._ _  
__  
_ She thinks of Clarel, she thinks of Alistair.  
She thinks of everyone they lost and how many more they would inevitably lose.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she hears a gruff voice speak from the barn, pulling her out from drowning in her thoughts.  
  
She turns her head, still resting on the snout to see Blackwall facing her, arms folded, eyes apathetic but welcoming.  
  
It’s neither an immediate nor vocal answer that comes from her.  
  
She releases the mount from her grip, exhaling heavily as she trudges her way to the Warden. Blackwall moves towards his Griffon carving, pulling two stools from under the worktable and sets them near the brazier.  
  
The way she dropped herself on the stool would have destroyed it if she were a full-bred Qunari. Instead, it creaked under her weight, her knees together, balancing her elbows as she held her head in her hands.  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t take you, Blackwall,” she confessed through her palms,  
  
“It’s fine,” he replies, shifting in his seat to face the Inquisitor “What matters is you tried to do the right thing. The Wardens live to protect and sacrifice. You gave them another chance to try and right the wrongs that were twisted against them.”  
  
Her head moves away from her hands as she removes her gloves, nearly throwing them to the side. Grey hands move to the back of her head, undoing her braid and letting the strands spill out; streaks of black and red coat her hair, making her wrinkle her nose.  
  
“Still fussy?” he laughs, motioning to the gored hair.  
  
Harel wants to run a hand through it but she doesn’t want to consider what will cake itself into her palms.  
  
“Still fussy.” she confirms, looking to the Warden, “Would it kill _you_ to be just a little fussy? Borrow my soaps, please, fucking please, man.”  
  
He shakes his head, chuckling, “At least I smell better than you right now, aye.” he pats the elf on her shoulder, almost sending her tumbling forward.  
  
She stiffens, trying to absorb the friendly blows. Her everything is sore and aching yet again, mind swirling with things but the times when the Warden isn’t brooding are some of her favourites. It’s rare to get him to chime in with a jape. 

  
Leather fingers curl into her shoulder. They watch the fire together as she feels the room change; the joke falling away as quickly as the embers. He’s reticent at first, his eyes darting back and forth from the fire to the Inquisitor, but then, he decides. He becomes the determined Blackwall she knows.  
  
She turns her head, straightening up as she braces a hand to the stool.  
  
She knows he wants to speak and waits for him.  
  
“When I was a boy, I watched these urchins string up a mongrel. A skinny little thing, kicking and straining against the rope, dying slowly.” he confesses, watching the shock grow on the Inquisitor’s face, “Instead of stopping the bastards, I just walked right back into my house like a fucking coward.”  
  
“Mythal...” Harel groans as she tilts her head back, “what the fuck, man. Is this the traditional Markham fireside tale?”  
  
He presses his lips together and she could see the chide wanting to come forward, the grumpy, abrasive _stop dancing_ glare he gave her so long ago.  
But he holds himself back.  
She closes her eyes, muttering “sorry” under her breath.  
He nods, acknowledging the apology.  
_And Cassandra said the girl held nothing sacred._ _  
_ Maybe she’s changing.

  
“Never again,” he continued, “It’s so easy to shut one’s eyes to problems but the world would be a better place if we were awake, if we wanted to help.”  
  
“Guess who grew up?” The Herald smiles softly, “From a scared baby to a Grey Warden. Your eyes are so open that you practically have no fucking eyelids.”  
  
A grunt from the bearded man, then a nod, “You would have given those urchins a right walloping.”  
  
Harel snorts, sounding a lot like her mount, “I would have fucking **murdered** them,” she says with a beaming grin.  
  
Blackwall takes his hand off her shoulder to massage his knee as if an old wound still troubled him. The elf notices, gesturing lazily at the motion.  
  
“Sword tip chipped off in there when I was still in the Tourneys. The Surgeon couldn’t fish it out so it lives with me now.” he presses his thumb into a puckered scar, “Amazing how some shit just stays with us. I only think of this sodding thing when it acts up. Other times...it’s like it never happened.”  
  
The words are gentle as if sharing a secret. He has pain in his eyes, memories reflecting in his mind forever as if to remind him every day, every second.  
  
She wants to ask but it was not her place.  
Harel moves around on the stool, stretching out her leg and rolling up the fabric to show a crescent-shaped scar of unconnected dotting slashes on her calf.  
  
“A dog bit me when I was a child,” she said running a thumb over the raised, silvery marks, “He would have probably killed me if my magic didn’t show.” green eyes burrowed into the Warden, “I killed him instead. A healer worked it over but the scar stuck.”  
  
“The Halla-kisser killed an animal?” he remarks, mirroring the elf’s obnoxious outburst at his confession.  
  
Her lips pucker as she tries to look serious, then a grin straightens out on her face, “Yes, you great stinking bear,” she punches the Warden lightly, “Which means we’re both responsible for a dog’s death. Which means maybe we’re not so different you and I. Grey Warden and grey skin.” she chuckles, “Fuck off with the Andraste talk in general, we’re both just people trying not to get stomped by an Archdemon.”  
  
It’s like wood getting sawn, his laugh. Short, deep bursts of air, a levity in a man so willing to shut himself away.  
  
Blackwall was a good man, even if he smelled like a barn.  
  


* * *

  
There’s old magic in Skyhold. She doesn’t understand it but she knows it's there. Though dusty, there’s a beautiful library near the kitchens. Tomes, Grimoires, history, almost anything one may want to know in a magical perspective could be found there. Sometimes Harel found herself curled up by the massive tome at the end of the room, pouring over a book of Elvhen thaumaturgy or Tevine spell techniques. Though broken up, the worlds of magic often converged more than they diverged.  
  
She never tired of going to that library.  
Plus, if she was lucky, she could scare the shit out of Dorian when he went to steal bottles of wine.  
  
Now, however, she passed a finger over each book spine, her head aching from the search. She had yet to fix herself after Adamant, her mind still awake and running.  
  
Something connecting with her mark.

Shielding her while the Nightmare demon ate her.  
Taking pieces of her.  
Activated and alive, trying to erase her?  
No.  
Kill her?  
It could have when she was in the Fade.  
What was its true intent?  
  
Bending forward, she looked to another shelf.  
  
Nothing, nothing, nothing...a Shapeshifter’s tome?  
Maybe one day.  
  
“I see you still wake,”  
  
She’s too tired to jump at the voice.  
  
Solas paces forth, his gait measured and steady.  
  
There was a corruption in her, plucking at her strings, making her insane and there was nothing she could do about.  
Adamant was just a taste of the horrible fucking shit the Nightmare could do to her magic. All it would take was one fucked up barrier to end her life, an arrow shooting straight through her heart without anything but her armour to lessen the blow.  
  
Solas senses the Qunari elf lay buried in her thoughts, scuffing his shoe against the stone to try and bring her back. Green eyes look forward into nothing before she regains herself, the Anchor glowing dimly in the torchlight.  
  
“It was a Nightmare demon,” she says slowly, “That’s the thing that found me when I first went in the Fade. It knows where I am now and it wants to...devour me I guess.”  
  
She looks up to the ceiling and exhales heavily, lowering herself to her knees before burying her head in her hands. The elven apostate looked down to the Qunari, as the anchor glowed within her flesh.  
  
“Tell me your venture to the Fade. Spare no detail, Lethallan.” he says, taking a seat next to the withering soul, eyes never leaving the Qunari’s face lest he misses the hollowing shift in her eyes.  
  


* * *

  
At night she doesn’t wear armour. She prays at the window, only a candle lighting her vigil as the Quartermaster has turned in for the night. The forge lays cold, but in heart burns an unquenchable flame. She has yet to stop her fervent praying since collecting the Lord Seeker’s tome.  
  
Faith.  
  
Her Vigil was nothing more than the touch of a Spirit. Nothing within her was Maker given, shaking her foundational beliefs, making her turn her head away from the starlight. The Seeker tried not to think of the stories filling her head; the Maker created the sky as a large dome and placed the sun to warm the land. Everything in her mind reminded her of her faith yet she kneeled, trying to find solace in her life.  
  
A life bequeathed by the Fade.  
  
Cassandra hears the door creak and before it opens, she’s grabbed her sword, unsheathed and sharp, pointed at whomsoever may intrude.  
  
Trained by a rogue, the Inquisitor can be hard to spot in darkness at times but she makes herself known, black horns twisting up from moonlit hair. Her hands are up in a mocking show of surrender though the light in her eyes is small.  
  
The Seeker places her sword back in its scabbard, shifting around her meagre accommodations to ensure there’s a seat for the elf. It wasn’t odd that the Qunari came for counsel from her, but the recent events at Adamant has her all too willing to hear from the woman.  
  
Harel lumbers up the stairs, dried blood dusting off the elf in a red mist. She takes a moment to pat herself down before moving into the Seeker’s space, unwilling to dirty it any more than she already has.  
  
Cassandra is patient even though it’s not what she’s known for.  
  
Harel speaks before she reaches the seat.  
  
“The Fade is as beautiful as it is fucking awful.” she sighs, “You must have read the reports while I made the journey back. I’m pretty sure I said the words **fucking bullshit** over 40 times.”  
  
The rolled report was safely kept in a box by her bedroll, no amount of reading made the words seem real though.  
  
“And you saw the Divine? You saw the Most Holy?”  
  
The elf just looked despondent, “Maybe...I mean...it’s all kind of muddled...She helped us get out of that demon’s grasp so…she was good but...” she sighs harshly.  
  
Maybe it was too much to ask, too much to hope.  
Her faith was already shaken.  
But she needed to stay strong for the Inquisition, for the people who looked to them to find the truth.  
For every person in Thedas who cowered at the mention of this Magister God.  
  
She needed to have faith, and what truly was faith if it wasn’t tested.  
Yes, this must be a test.  
The Maker’s will given to her in unconventional ways.  
Her abilities, their leader, all unconventional but all sparked and burning with the same flame that gleamed in her heart.  
  
The strain in the Inquisitor was evident as if all joy dissipated from the woman. After her trials, the Seeker was quite surprised she was still standing. Harel hears the creak of the chair before she looks to the Nevarran. She’s standing, hand outstretched to the elf.  
  
“I know your beliefs are more.... comparable to Sera’s than anyone else’s. You are not staunch in any religion from what I have witnessed.” she takes the grey hand in her own, “But I would ask that you pray with me, if only for a moment.”  
  
“Like Sera’s?” Harel says, raising her eyebrows with a weary smile, “That little fuckstick doesn’t believe in anything, I mean the Maker yes kind of but…”  
  
“Humour me,” Cassandra says softly.  
  
They walk towards the window before sitting, the Seeker taking a knee while the horned elf sits back on her heels.  
  
Though the prayers are silent, they meld together, wrapping around each unsaid syllable like wisps from the Fade.  
  
_Shok ebasit hissra  
__Blessed are they who stand before  
__Meraad astaarit  
__The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.  
__Meraad itwasit  
__Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.  
__Aban aqun_

* * *

  
It’s nearing the 3rd hour when she’s finally finished scrubbing up. The blood and ash rinsed properly from her form. She caught herself falling asleep in the tub but roused herself before she could drown.  
  
Bested a demon but died in a tub?  
Bull would laugh the whole way to her pyre if that happened.  
  
She doesn’t remember the walk to her quarters or the walk up the stairs but she does remember the dim glow of the fireplace, the closed curtains, the chill of the stone floors.  
  
There’s a disturbance in the sheets as Harel pads her way towards the bed. Black hair is fanned out across the bed, a palm curled upwards below her pillow, gentle puffs of breath signalling a heavy dream. The Qunari quietly removes her boots, a buckleless pair for night walking, as she brings her knee to touch the bed.  
  
Even a dip in the mattress doesn’t rouse the Lady.  
  
Like a bird, a small, easy to kill bird. That’s how she must approach her as she dreams lest she gets a delicate fist to the face.  
And Josephine throws a better punch than one would expect.  
  
Scooping the wavy hair into a manageable stream, the Inquisitor looks at her peacefully dreaming paramour. She’s just a little afraid to touch her after the things the Nightmare showed her. She’s damn certain that the Nightmare made her crush Josephine’s throat in a dream too.  
  
Curse that fucking thing.  
  
And now, she didn’t know if her bloodstained hands could be trusted. Maybe the Nightmare had more plans, it definitely seemed that way.  
  
Possession? Insanity?  
What the fuck did it want exactly?  
All she knew was that the hollow was back, her emotions were a mess once more; her world grew more distant as time went by.  
Going back into the Fade was a fucking mistake.  
  
Harel tried to get comfy on the bed, her body tilted sideways, head propped up on her palm as she combs her fingers gently through Josephine’s hair.  
  
It’s easy to comb through with just a few tangles from all the tossing and turning, but soft like the fur in her cloak.  
  
“No one can sleep when you fret so loudly.”  
The accent is heavy from being awoken but so very alert.  
  
The regret in Harel’s voice is tangible, “Ah, I’m sorry I woke you.”  
  
Inhaling in a big breath, the Ambassador turns in the sheets to face the Qunari, eyes hooded from slumber.  
  
“I was awake since you stepped in,” she smiles as the Herald expresses confusion, “The Game teaches all players how to change posture when necessary.”  
  
“So tricking people into thinking you’re asleep when you’re not is important to the Game?” Harel japes.  
  
Josephine stifles a yawn in her palm before continuing, “You would be surprised how many secrets are caught during scandalous affairs,” she moves a hand to run down the elf’s arm, her breath catching as she realizes what she just said, “But you have nothing to fear from me.”  
  
There’s honesty in her tone, despite the sleepy rasp that wraps around her words. Harel can’t help but trust her, even when she knows the duplicitous nature of nobility.  
  
The Wolf was afraid her jaws could not be trusted but she laid her heart in the Lady’s hands.  
She hoped the reverse was true as well.  
  
Cats had claws, sharp and wicked though Josie never unsheathed them on her.  
  
The light catches in those silvery eyes and Harel feels her stomach drop as she recalls the fading light in them from that nightmare, the flutter of death glazing over. She didn’t realize she had closed her eyes until a warm hand slid over her cheek, a thumb brushing against the skin.  
  
A hand to ground her, grapple her, tether her to the world she found herself drifting away from.  
  
“That demon was the cause of this,” the diplomat says quietly, “I read the reports…”  
  
Harel’s eyes opened slowly, looking into the grey hazel eyes, embroiled with concern, tenderness and…  
The elf leans in to capture her fair Lady in a kiss, starlight, poetry and soft blushes.  
  
Forget the fucking reports.  
  
She kisses her cheek, then her jawline, peppering them down to her neck before breathing in.  
  
She smells subtly of flowers and the lightest scent of beloved Seheron tea. Harel smiles into the skin as she takes note of the Lady’s interest in the drink.  
Josephine stiffens at the feel of teeth on her throat, a bite once sweet now sinking into her flesh. Her breath comes out in shallow puffs, sleep evacuating her system entirely.  
A tongue glides across the bitten flesh to soothe the pain before the Qunari stops entirely.  
  
The beast raises her hands to cup the Antivan’s face, rough patches of skin brushing carefully over fragile flesh. Green eyes well up with tears before a dusky hand curled around a horn to carefully guide the Inquisitor’s head to her chest. The horned elf settled to listen to the human’s heartbeat as tears soak into the white nightdress.  
  
Her horns catch slightly on the headboard but she focuses her senses to listen.  
  
A gentle thrumming, an affirmation of life.  
No nightmare demons to rattle the cage.  
No sudden hallucinations.  
No echoing emptiness drowning her in a void.  
  
Just...existence.  
  
Harel takes note of the green glow coming off of her, noticing the ripple of the Anchor on her palm, the magic looking to spark and connect, to reach out towards nothing.  
  
A shield standing still in the light of the moon.  
  
Though it doesn’t compare to the feeling of the Fade, the embrace fell over her hollowed pain; soothing.  
  
It was not a fix, but it would have to do.  
It was enough.  
  


* * *

  
Grass against her feet, she’s staring up at the sky, the sun heating her grey skin. Sweat trickling down her neck as she lowers her head.  
  
A dusty path stretches out to her as she takes in a scent of Elfroot and dirt.  
  
The flora was enough of an indicator.  
  
Wycome.

  
Harel began walking, turning her head around to catch the sounds of birds and bugs, tweeting and crawling filled her ears.  
  
She looked at her legs.  
Barefoot, leather and cloth.  
Small legs.  
Small grey hands reach up to her horns, quarter way across her head instead of fully grown.  
  
She was a child again.  
  
Confusion tapped her body first, then a quiet fear.  
Lucid and awake.  
But it must have been a dream.  
  
Harel walks forward as the pebbles skitter away from her toes, her gait as muffled as she can make it despite the bright daylight and lack of predators.  
  
The trees stretched upwards, coating the forest in leaves, only allowing a stippling of sunlight and sky through to light her path.  
  
**I always keep my promises, Fadewalker.** **  
** **  
** The voice, appearing from everywhere and nowhere as she turned around to try and locate the origin. She knew she wouldn’t find it, she knew it was that **fucking** demon.  
  
Memories are powerful, especially when traumatic.  
  
The thought rang in her head as she saw something appear from the end of the path, foam curling off its lips, eyes wild and angry.  
  
It charged, growling, snarling, vicious.  
  
Already in a sprint, Harel ran as fast as her legs could take her, trying her best to outpace the dog. The same Courser hound from the Clan, the same one she killed, beating its paws against the dirt as it gained on her.  
  
It was far angrier than she remembered, her eyes looking over her shoulders as she panted, seeing flashes of red where its eyes would be and the dusting of frost coating the ground with each step it took.  
  
**You cannot outrun me. You cannot hide.** **  
** **And now, I’ll take something I will never return.** **  
** **  
** A horrible burning pain shot up her leg, blood pouring from the wound as the dog latched on, teeth biting harder and harder as if trying to crunch directly into bone.  
  
Then it unlatched its jaws, pushing a paw down on her leg, then her chest, holding her down as it sprayed spit and her own blood onto her face.  
  
She felt the teeth before she saw the dog move.  
  
Sharp teeth digging into her throat, the bone and cartilage crushing, her breath barely halfway out of her body before the dog snapped its head about, ripping her trachea from her still-living body.  
  
Harel tried to breathe, Mythal she tried, but every breath just caused another jet of blood to spatter on the dog’s brown fur.  
  
It wasn’t a peaceful death, neither was it painless.  
  
All the colour drained away from her mind as she felt herself fall into an odd slumber, a conscious slumber where her body fell away from her mind.  
  


* * *

  
Leliana wore a knowing smile as she looked across the War Table towards the Ambassador. Though she had the pretty Commander in the middle, she never stopped shooting glances to the Ambassador.  
  
Josephine didn’t dare allow the Spymistress to bask in her knowing looks. She focused on the parchment on her clipboard, wrist bent on her hip as she held her dry pen.  
  
Focus on anything but that woman.  
  
Grey eyes flicked over to Leliana for just the briefest moments and ugh _the damn grin_ that woman wore for a split second almost had the Ambassador fly across the room to shake the sillies out of the Mistress.  
  
Meanwhile, Cullen was minding his own business, not willing to get caught up in whatever game the two were playing.  
  
Why was Leliana watching her?  
Simple.  
Josephine wore her golden scarf just a little higher than usual.  
A detail not caught by the untrained eye unless of course, you were a brilliant Spymaster with the eyes of a magical raven.  
  
_She was combing through her hair as Harel slept, the Inquisitor barely moved that night though her breaths came out shallow; no nightmares. She brought a mirror into the elf’s space which the damnable little jester used to poke and prod her about their relationship._ _  
_ _  
_ _Maker, that Qunari wore the biggest smile when she spoke about their dalliance._ _  
_ _  
_ _Dawn broke over the Keep allowing Josephine to apply her kohl in more than just dim firelight. As she brushed her hair to the side she noticed a bruise._ _  
_ _  
_ _Placing the hairbrush back down on the dresser, her fingers shot up to her neck to press against a bite which showed red against her dark skin._ _  
_ _  
_ _DAMN THAT ELF._ _  
_ _  
_ _She glared at the sleeping Druffalo as she slept with her forearm as a pillow._ _  
_ _  
_ _She studied the location of the mark before realizing her sash would hide it if tied just a little higher instead of directly on her high collar._ _  
_ _  
_ _All former indignant rage left her body to be replaced with a soft sigh._ _  
_ _  
_ _The Herald was definitely a handful._ _  
_ _  
_ _Green eyes reflected in her mind, a gentle Halla who saw herself a wolf. A softness no one else was allowed to spy._ _  
_ _  
_ _All hers and no one else’s._ _  
_ _  
_ _Considering what happened, she left the Inquisitor’s room in a rather chipper state._ _  
_  
Now she had Leliana to deal with as they waited for the Inquisitor to come to the War Table. Though she was notoriously hard to rouse, the Herald still managed to make it to the table on time. It explained why she was normally the one to summon them instead of the other way around.  
  
But they needed to hear more about Adamant from the horned elf’s mouth instead of from dusty vellum.  
  
Cullen snapped to attention as the door rattled open, creaking on old hinges as the Harel stepped through.  
  
At once they noticed a change.  
The elf was placid and just a touch crestfallen.  
They thought the face to be mired with sadness until they realized they rarely saw the woman with a blank face.  
  
No expressions reflected from the Qunari as she moved to stand in front of the table, her eyes looking over everyone and never once lingering.  
  
Leliana was going to harass the elf for her liberties with the Ambassador and Josephine was expecting to fight off these accusations before Harel would smile widely and make her face a blatant confession.  
  
Instead, the room stood cold and still, the elf’s eyes looking over the map markers before she spoke, “What’s on the agenda today?”  
  
All the words were set in a monotone that sent a chill raking up Josephine’s spine.  
Her Harel didn’t speak like that.  
The elf was bubbly and kind.  
  
This tone, however, was devoid of everything.  
  
And her eyes, green and dull, lacking any form of _anything_ . She looked like a dead fish, glazed eyes reflecting the world to them.  
  
“Why are you all upset?”  
  
The sound of a clipboard clattered against the stone as the Inquisitor tilted her head, ink spilling into the creases of the stone before pooling and soaking into soft shoes.  
  
Cullen was the first to move, walking swiftly past Leliana to examine the elf.  
  
Maker no, Maker please.  
  
Harel simply stared at the Commander’s approach, any confusion or intrigue dying on her blank face.  
  
He looked deeply into her eyes, before looking to her palm which glowed like a dying firebug.  
He's seen that look before, he's seen so many give him that same placid stare.  
  
“Commander,” was all Josephine could get out before rushing to Harel’s side, turning the elf to face her, “What is wrong with her?”  
  
Tawny hands cupped the Inquisitor’s face as she rubbed her thumbs over cheeks that were accustomed to smiling.  
  
“Josephine, why are you upset?” came the elf in a flat voice, her mouth moving as if she were a corpse brought back to life, only causing the Ambassador to choke back a sob.  
  
The Commander grit his teeth, shock and anger fighting in his body for control as he felt the words touch his lips. He didn’t want to speak them towards Josephine so he turned his head to the Spymistress who broke her mask to show anxious worry.  
  
And the words dropped, like a coin on the floor, spinning wildly before it met the ground.  
  
It took a moment for Josephine to take in the words before she buried herself into the elf’s chest, the Inquisitor just stood there as tears soaked into her daywear, the leather covering the bawling of a woman who normally restrained herself well.  
  
“She’s Tranquil.” _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh SHIT
> 
> OOOOHHH SHIIIIT DOG
> 
> DID I GO THERE??? YES I DID DOG!!!!
> 
> I have a plan.  
> Ah Harel, it was nice knowing you
> 
> Oh yea, translations:  
> Imekari- Child  
> Saarath- a rank of Saarebas. A powerful one
> 
> Thanks for reading this fucking garbage  
> Remember to stretch your legs, specifically on a torture device called the Rack.
> 
> It'll pull your spine right out


	17. Give her back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A secret is known by the ones she trusted,  
> As Skyhold went on believing their saviour hit her head again,  
> Sequestered in her room until something could be done,
> 
> All they have now is each other.
> 
> The Mark is both a blessing and a curse.

The great thing about being a surface-born dwarf was the fact you could go as high up as you wanted without feeling you’d get sucked into the sky. Varric never paid much mind to the shivering underground dwellers, never once understanding how anyone could tire of fresh air and sunlight.  
  


He could do without the cold weather though.  
  


Walking the battlements, the rogue passed the landing where Hawke once stood so long ago. A plan made for Crestwood turning into a plan for the Western Approach turning into a huge fucking assault on a demon-filled Keep.

  
Maker, he thought everything went well despite the Inquisitor’s tumble on the steps, magic blunders and emotional retraction.  
  


And as selfish as it sounded, he got Hawke back.  
  


But even his friend’s escape from death didn’t perk him up. He walked over to the battlement wall facing the mountains, resting his arms on the space between the stones.  
  


He got Hawke back.

She’d suffered enough at the hands of the city she tried to save and yet shit always happened to the Champion. But he got her back, despite everything. He had to keep reminding himself.

She was alive.

He should be happy.

Leather was a terrible material for wiping away tears.

He just let the water fall, let the breeze do the work for him before anyone saw him. Bringing gloved hands up to his face, he rested his head in his palm, gritting his teeth.

The only warmth given to him was Bianca, who clicked her gears with every move he made; a response to his sadness, a response to his pain.

“I couldn’t help her.”

Boots tapped against the high wall segment next to him, a boy with his hat tipped low, his voice carried into the wind.

The kid always followed pain.

And that always made watching him exist more painful.

“I do it because I want to help.” Cole replied to Varric’s thoughts, “But it didn’t work. I was too late. I...it hurts. It hurts that she doesn’t hurt. A hurt that hurts because...it doesn’t exist...”

There was a depressing perk to being short.

The dwarf could see tear tracks both new and dried on the kid’s face clearly without having to strain his eyes.

Taking a breath, Varric considered his next words only to have them whisked away.

“It doesn’t matter that I did all I could,” the boy spoke through his anguish, “I failed her. She tried so hard to help me and I couldn’t help her!”

Like water dripping off a leaf or tears falling off a face, the boy jumped to the ground in one smooth motion.

“This is probably not going to make you feel any better, kid,” Varric speaks through the harsh wind, “but I think we all failed her and at the same time, didn’t fail her.”

He could see the Spirit wanted to express himself but didn’t know how, so Cole took to shoving his body forward and back in a vicious pacing motion.

“You don’t make any sense!” the Spirit said, grabbing the brim of his hat with both hands to tug it down.

An unexpected chuckle from the lying writer had Cole look away from his breakdown. Cole saw the tears on Varric’s face show no signs of leaving, his eyes contemplative and dejected but his hands laced together as if he were back in a tavern, telling stories.

“That’s life. It’s not supposed to make sense. You just have to fight through all the bullshit and hope for the best.”

Blue eyes drowning in tears looked past blond hair and into the dwarf. His head bent down, hat covering his face from the sun. There’s silence again but Varric can practically hear the Spirit thinking, his will to speak creating a heavy cloud in the conversation.

“You don’t believe your own words. Normally you do but not now.” the boy finally spoke.

A laugh but more of a grunt escaped the dwarf as he shook his head.

“And how far in my head did you have to go to find that out, Cole?” he said, moving his fingers, listening to the leather squeak.

The wind carried him forward, moving his legs towards Varric, his boots tapping on the stone as if willing himself to be heard.

“I didn’t.” Cole spoke, a blank expression on his face as he tilted his head, “I could hear it in your voice. Different from your head, it’s more simple but...the same.”

Pushing himself from the battlement wall, Varric turned towards the Spirit, a smile on his face despite the situation.

“That’s called intuition,” the smile grew brighter as if fighting off the pain, “it’s something we living people do since we can’t hear brains like you.”

He was still getting accustomed to smiling, the kid. An awkward grin that reflected happiness knowing it was the emotion to show but it never looked quite….right. Not real enough.

But now.

Now Cole grinned, the thought that he was fitting into somewhere within this crazy, fucked up world finally dawning on the boy.

“I didn’t have to feel the hurt, Varric,” the boy said through a smile, the realization hitting him, “I heard it…”

You’d think Cole was real with the way he smiled.

You’d think he was happy, legitimately happy even though he was confused all the time.

Harel would have loved to see this milestone.

It made the dwarf even prouder when that thought came across his head and the kid didn’t even seem to pick up on it. He just kept smiling, living in the moment and not in other people’s heads.

He was changing.

“Come on, kid,” Varric said as he walked, gesturing for the boy to follow him, “I swear today’s the day you get one game of Wicked Grace right. Who knows, you might even win a round.”

Cole walked at Varric’s side, his hat bent low but not low enough to cover his grin, “Would that help you?”

A quiet chuckle came from the dwarf, easing the pain of the Spirit before he spoke, “Kid, you have no idea.”

Tear-stained leather wrapped around the boy’s waist, a gentle one-handed hug before releasing, a pale palm rested on the dwarf’s shoulder as the boy realized he was being hugged.

The kid was going to be fine.

Varric would make sure of it.

* * *

Someone was going to lose their fucking eye.

Another arrow disappeared before it even reached the bottom.

Ok, maybe some snow creature was going to lose their eye, no sane person would go trudging through the ice at the bottom of Skyhold.

She didn’t care.

Sitting on the destroyed wall near the barns, Sera readied another arrow into a frayed bowstring, pulling far too hard before sending it flying into fucking nothing.

It wasn’t enough.

Gripping the wood tightly, she reached into her quiver for another arrow.

_Fucking nothing._

Her hands shook as she stared at the horizon, the vast emptiness dotted by black birds flying past the sun. A mighty frown covered her face as her grip tightened; if she were stronger, the weapon would have snapped in half.

Sera remembered a drunk Qunari stumbling in Haven, an idiotic smile plastering the face of the half-breed elf as she spun around with her own breeches on her horns.

She remembered everything, a brilliant heist, a moment of trickery. The tavern room felt too small to her all of a sudden, she couldn’t stand having a view of that damn roof.

She was remembering everything.

And she hated reminiscing.

She hated moping.

_She hated everything._

The bow made its way towards the fallen arrows, tumbling down the wall before disappearing into the snow.

A scream echoed through the valley, followed by the filthiest swearing in Thedas. A mouth so foul that the Maker himself would strike her down.

And she hoped He would.

Fists clenched, throat raw, her shouts tore through her body, causing an avalanche somewhere far away, sending her anger and _feelings_ anywhere but here.

Elfy was _fucking_ **gone** _._

Harel was gone.

In Denerim, if the local urchins saw you cry, they would ruin your life. They’d all gang up on you, no one willing to help a wailing brat. Weakness carved in your bones as they went off in groups, leaving you to fend for yourself or worse.

Sera never cried.

If she did it was because of onions in a convoluted prank.

Sera also never remained in one place for too long.

That makes it two broken rules.

The tears soaked into her plaidweave pants, her eyes pressed solidly into her knees.

She didn’t realize she was bunched up into a ball until another sob passed through her throat, escaping into the bright yellow of her pants.

She heard gravel and stone getting kicked up by heavy footsteps and quickly snapped her body straight, her sleeves doing fuck all to wipe away the evidence of her crying.

Fuck it all.

She knew who it was before they even sat down, the leather and horse stink permeating from nearby as they scuffed their boot on the broken bridge.

“Shut it.” came the city elf as she sniffled her way back from a whimper.

The Warden sighed as he dropped to the ground, looking as sulky as usual. He rarely ever spoke but they got along; two down to the ground fuckheads, fighting an ancient Magister Darkspawn asshole.

Blackwall was a good one in her books.

“I didn’t say anything.” the man spoke through his beard.

The Red Jenny turned to face him, her reddened eyes matching the colour of her shirt, “Doesn’t matter. Shut it.”

For someone who said literally anything that flew from her head, she wasn’t acting like it today. Sera was reserved, walled off, trying her hardest not to think but she _just kept thinking._

_Elfy’s gone, Elfy’s gone, she’ll never come back, she’s dead now, dead inside, soon we’ll all be dead._

“Balls.”

It was a dry swear, forced out but genuine from the Warden.

It was enough to make Sera stop think-

“Fucking shite balls.” he said again, pulling the city elf’s mind from her malaise.

“Awww. For me?” Sera spoke softly, shoving her thoughts away.

Uncurling herself from her hunched position, Sera stuck a leg out to hover over the precipitous drop. She felt the breeze cut through her shoe, bringing her back to where she was.

Fuck all this moping.

For the first time since the news broke, since she saw the lifeless green eyes, Sera gave a small snorting chuckle before using Blackwall as a means to get up.

Her hand pushed off from the warrior’s shoulder before bringing her hand up to send his hair tumbling into his face.

He grunted before smoothing his hair back down, a small, unburdened smile coming off from the normally dour man.

“Let’s get focken wellied.” the archer said all too happily; one would think she never cried in the first place.

Looking off into the horizon, Blackwall sighed, then pushed himself off the ground, slowly rising to tower over the elf.

“Feeling better, I take it?” the Warden asked as he stuck out a hand for Sera to leave first.

The chivalry was noted and denied.

Marching past with her legs swinging out, Sera slapped Blackwall’s hand away, “Shove your gentlemen cocking thingy. You’re buyin’.”

A short huff of resigned laughter escaped the warrior as he began to follow behind the elf, “Of course I am”, all too sarcastically.

“And a pie. Maybe three. And some potatoes. Oh, and that soup-”

“Cold ale, 16 silvers limit and not a copper more.” came the grumpy response behind Sera.

She let the reprimand sit for a little as they made their way towards the stairs.

Not too long though.

“Arse.”

“Brat.”

“Stinking git.”

“Can you and everyone in this damned place stop talking about how I smell?.” Blackwall interrupted.

“Smelly complaining frigbiscuit.”

So much for that.

At least Sera was distracted, even if it was at his own expense.

And a distracted Sera was a happy Sera.

* * *

Anger was rare. Normally the apostate showed enough restraint to put a Tranquil to shame.

The entire sentence cut through her, reminding her why she was fighting with the elf.

Solas was beyond upset at Cassandra’s idea, his face contorted into a furious snarl. There was a choice that she desperately wanted him to consider, even if it seemed like she was forcing him to choose.

As far as she knew, it was the only way to save the Inquisitor.

Cassandra had found the elven apostate in the library near the kitchens, his hands flicking through book after book, his face mired with an emotion which lay hidden in the shadows.

He felt guilty and imbecilic.

He wasn’t fast enough to save her from the Nightmare’s plan. It stole away Harel’s essence at first, gorging itself on her nervous fears, sucking away at her essence but not enough to break her. Slowly making her mad with images of her greatest insecurities, her fear of hurting others, her fear of being a monster, her fears of losing control.

Her fear of being a wolf; her name.

The demon toyed with her at first in a sickening game.

Then her Rift mage powers only helped to strengthen the target on her back.

He clenched the leather-bound tome in his fists.

Her first walk into the Fade merely marked her, her second venture ensured its grip.

It played on her fears till it wormed its way in, no matter the magic in her palm trying to ward away the Nightmare.

The damn thing won.

A Somniari’s death in dreams becomes their Tranquility in life.

**Damn it all**.

A deep breath pulled into his lungs before he looked to the disturbance at the door.

The Seeker, face placid yet bothered, her eyebrows dipping down even more than usual which should have been impossible considering her normal expression.

And now they stood, squaring off as they quietly howled down each other’s remarks.

Solas nearly flung the book in his hand to the wall. Instead, he shut the tome with a sharp snap, sending dust flying into the poorly lit room.

“How dare you suggest such a thing.” the apostate hissed, “To force a Spirit into this world simply to touch a mind may corrupt it eternally. Even if it were to save the Inquisitor, we would be destroying yet another denizen of the Fade for our selfishness!”

He could see the woman wanted to charge, to berate, to grind out a command, but to do that would be to alert everyone in the hold of their plans.

Cassandra was not known to be a soft-spoken woman.

“So you would condemn the Inquisition to failure simply for the _life_ of one of these Spirits?” she paced the narrow hallway, never once taking her eyes off of Solas, “Without her, Corypheus is certain to strike successfully. Maker knows if this Nightmare demon has not already informed him of the Tranquility.”

“You treat the Spirits as if they are simply tools, Seeker!” Solas retorted, his eyes flashing dangerously in the torchlight, “You said it was a Spirit of Faith which brought you back from your Vigil; that _blessed_ you with your abilities.” he lowers his voice to try and contain his rage, “The Spirit may have come to you because of your Faith, but Harel has **NOTHING** inside of her! You are asking me to forcefully rip a Spirit from its home to touch her mind! Even if it is to save her, I know within my soul that even the Herald would not stoop to corrupting a pure force simply to save herself.”

There’s an armoured hand squeezing her sword’s grip. She wouldn’t dare pull out the blade but the act of grasping the hilt made her feel less likely to snap.

“Well, _Solas_ , it isn’t just about what she wants anymore. It’s about what she _needs_ \- what we _all_ need- and we _need_ her to be ready to fight.” Cassandra speaks harshly, “We must summon a Spirit to her whether you like it or not.”

A book goes flying past the Seeker, not even close to hitting her; thrown to make a point but not to harm. The Seeker doesn’t flinch, she is unshakable even in this harrowing time.

“YOU WILL **NOT** SUFFER A SPIRIT WHILE I STAND!” Solas nearly shouts, his breath coming out angry and shallow, before catching himself, “I am looking for other options, I am _trying_ to help her-”

“And look at what good your help has done!” Cassandra says as she steps forward, “She is _Tranquil,_ Solas! Reversing the Rite may help her-”

“Reversing the Rite may make her more unstable! It may drive her completely mad!!!”

“What choice do we have?!” says the Nevarran through clenched teeth.

Her brows are no longer pressed into a vicious furrow. Instead, they tilt upwards in worry, “The longer we wait, the more terrible the symptoms of reversing the Rite will be.”

“And the less we consider the consequences, the more we open ourselves to a spectacular failure. We stand to lose more than the Inqui-...than Harel if she falls. We stand to lose everything as we speak. We must consider our options with great care. I mean not to be callous, Cassandra, only realistic.”

There is a pause as the elven apostate considers his next words, “I have failed her once, I will not fail her again.”

A sigh meets his pointed ears as Solas moves his eyes to stare at the Seeker, a weary look has settled on her face, “And neither will I...I….apologize for my brashness, Solas,” says the Seeker retrospectively before releasing a humourless laugh, “Harel once told me I am like a ram with the way I butted heads with her. I suppose it is true for my interactions with others as well.”

Solas calms himself, taking in Cassandra’s apology as well as the weighted emotion of her words, “I will not hold it against you. I too am as well...at fault...My pace in solving this problem has caused us to lose her...a result I was hoping I had more time to prevent…” he waves his hand at nothing, emoting, “And now we must rebuild.”

There is no sound but the rattling of pots in the kitchen. No footsteps nearby to warrant the telltale steps of an eavesdropping servant.

There were no goodbyes, no nodding of heads. Just a departure followed by the creaking hinges of the library door. They had said all they needed to, gotten out all the emotions and worries that held them back. All they could do now is hope and research furiously before more time passed them.

Solas thought of the crackling green palm as he reached out to another bookshelf.

It remained active despite the Inquisitor’s Tranquility.

A practised thumb opens a weathered tome, starting on the first page, his eyes scanning for clues.

There may be hope yet.

Please, let there be hope.

* * *

Oh, it was madness.

Absolute madness.

The Inquisitor was Tranquil.

Though it would make for some of the most brilliant blackmail, it couldn’t be done. Vivienne may be able to play the Game in her sleep but she wasn’t so quick to damn the entirety of Thedas for one-upmanship.

Then again, maybe.

No...no...There would be no grand Game if the world fell into a smouldering ruin due to some over-eager elderly God pretender.

If she did find a way to use this to her benefit, she was quite certain the red-headed Spymaster would see her life ended within the second.

That wouldn’t be too good for her influential career either.

So here she was, doing what she could to help the Inquisition's current Fade disconnection problem by using her various sources and knowledge to assist.

She was on her balcony as she considered the pros and cons of everything.

Help the Inquisition and if the plucky elf Qunari was cured, she would have the organization eating out of her palm with favours.

Stellar.

Everyone went about their day, stopping every once in a while to inquire about the state of their leader. Since the Inquisitor returned from the siege, Leliana and Josephine performed one of the most well-timed and precise story cover-ups in all of history.

The story was that the Inquisitor sustained another head wound. The details were ‘fuzzy’ but she was badly injured and needed bed rest. It was realistic enough yet vague enough to have everyone relaxed and not wagging their tongue too much about various rumours.

The elf was damned lucky she came in the night instead of the day or else the story would have been harder to weave.

_“I just want people to judge me based on my actions, the good things I do.” the Qunari smiled as she leaned over the stone bannister, “I do love a gorgeous outfit but if that’s all I’m seen for then just slap me in plaidwave and send me marching towards the enemy! I want people to see me, not just_ **_see_ ** _me.”_

Vivienne was not all too happy about that response. In fact, most of what the Qunari did and said was...ugh.

Equal parts loud, obnoxious and rude.

But also charming, comedic and….maybe just a tad bit delightful.

She would never say it to the Inquisitor’s face, the woman would probably think that made them _friends_.

Someone really should snap that little half-breed from her childish delusions of befriending every person she saw.

Maker, that damn elf.

A loud bang sounded from the doorway nearby though Vivienne's nerves were so finely tempered that nothing much caught her off guard anymore. She knew who clomped their way through the door before they made themselves known.

Only one person would be so excited to bang their head on the doorframe.

“Got the books you needed, Ma’am.” said Bull as he cradled a pile of tomes in his ginormous hands, “I’ll be back down to get that Grimroar thing too.”

“Thank you, darling,” Vivienne chirped in her practised tone, “And it’s **Grimoire** ,” she turned away from her stone perch to look upon the Tal-Vashoth, “I see you continue to try and dislodge every door you come upon.”

Setting the books down very carefully, Bull responded sheepishly, his stature hunched at the sight of the human Tamassran, “I….want to see if I can get the wood loose with just my head.”

He hears an amused chuckle as he raises his eye from the floor, the Enchantress was once again fully amused by his predilections in mayhem.

“Iron Bull, do remember that you can easily bend to avoid such mishaps. We do not want you looking like a mindless beast destroying the compound.” Vivienne’s smile is calculating but she is legitimately entertained, no cold duplicity was lurking behind her eyes at the moment.

Maker only knew how but Vivienne and Bull had a phenomenally respectful camaraderie, one may even hazard to call it _friendship_.

Of course, if someone ever pointed out that detail to her, she would have them frozen solid before the last word could escape their lips.

She sauntered over to the horned giant as he slouched even more, the quick snap of her knowing eyes on him made his spine straighten immediately. Though she loved the show of submission the man displayed, she preferred his towering stature not be hindered.

It would be a waste if such impressive shoulders remained huddled every time he saw her, no matter how amusing or flattering the sight was.

She made her way to her fainting couch, her posture nothing but perfect as she took a seat; graceful and fluid as water. Putting on a show even though only one watched.

The Game was always played no matter if you had an audience or not.

And soldiers thought they were the only ones who had hard training.

If only they knew.

“That will be all, my dear. Thank you,” came the Enchantress as she picked up a book on Tevinter Spirit binding she was leafing through before her venture to the balcony.

Though he had been dismissed, Bull remained, if not more than a little awkwardly. He shuffled his feet trying to get the Orlesian mage’s attention without pushing her boundaries.

Normally just shoving his way into a conversation was easy but this was **Vivienne** he was talking about. The woman was a fucking Tamassran; authoritative and fearsome. It was hard not to sink back into his old ways.

“The dust will gather on you before you say what you wish,” Vivienne said disinterestedly, her eyes skimming over a page as her thumb pressed into the book’s middle, “Speak, Iron Bull.”

A single gulp, then Bull drew himself up to his full height, trying his best to cast a commanding aura on the Enchantress. It was hard, damn _fucking hard_ but he had to attempt.

Come on, Bull, you’ve killed literally everything in your path PLUS fought demons in the fucking Fade.

What’s one tall human?

Dark grey eyes peered over the book, equally annoyed and intrigued as to why the hulking Qunari had yet to scamper away.

He took a breath, then began to speak, “Ma’am, I think that the Inquisitor is one of the best people I’ve ever met. I don’t give a rat’s a-....I don’t care if she’s a mage, I don’t care if she’s different or a cross-breed. I don’t care about any of that.” he tried to draw himself up again, “What I do care about is how you get along with her. I know you two are on the rocks but I swear,” he narrows his one eye as if to challenge the Enchantress, “If you say anything to anyone for the sake of your precious little court shit or do anything to her while she’s like this, I will **destroy you** ….Ma’am.”

He finishes his sentence with a growl to ensure his message was received.

He was once a Ben-Hassrath but it didn’t take a spy to see that Vivienne was as conniving as she was ambitious.

The fucking Saarebas was good to him in his time of need. Now she needed everyone and politicking bullshit _wasn’t_ helpful. 

“Message received, dear. Is that all?” Vivienne said in a neutral voice, almost as if she waved the entire speech off.

Bull smirked as he watched the mage. If he were in the Antaam, he wouldn’t have caught the subtle twitch in her brow or the quick movement of her eyelids in the briefest form of narrowing.

He wouldn’t have caught those reactions to his monologue; a telling sign that Vivienne had just the smallest hint of regret for her reactions to the Inquisitor.

She hadn’t been all that kind when the news broke after all.

They had to all stick together now, for the Boss’ sake as well as their own.

“That’s all, Ma’am.” Bull said as he gave a small nod, turning tail to leave.

He bent his massive body through the frame instead of trying to shake it loose with his horns, his mind too full of things to even consider damaging shit.

Blackwall and Sera were putting away ales faster than Cabot could dish; maybe he would join them.

From the comfort of her fainting couch, the Enchantress read the tome, her mind not paying attention to the words as she looked at the same line over and over.

That damn elf.

_The Inquisitor had thrown the smooth metal down again, swearing up a storm as she threw a small tantrum at the staff. Her hand had sustained a minor electrical burn from handling the grip; her eyes flaring with annoyance and anger._

_Then, she fell into a sitting position, her legs stretched out as far as they would go as she buried her head in her undamaged hand._

_Worthless, hopeless, hapless._

_Footsteps, then the sound of iron being lifted from the dirt as Harel turned her eyes up to the disturbance._

_Fuck no._

_Vivienne held the staff in her hands, looking over the quality of the weapon before giving it a small twirl, a small spark of electricity bounced off the tip and landed harmlessly near to the horned elf._

_“It’s not broken, my dear,” the Enchantress said, “yet you still face problems.”_

_Harel refused to meet the mage’s eyes, “So you’ve come to make fun of me? The untrained apostate who can’t even use a staff right?”_

_There was a bark of laughter but lacking the usual frosty edge to her tone, “While I would love to use my free time to observe your blunders, Inquisitor,” she pointed the staff hilt towards the fallen elf, “I, unfortunately, lack the luxury to do so. Both hands, darling.”_

_The Qunari raised her eyebrow, at first taken aback by the minor insult, then curious at her latter statement, “Both hands?”_

_Gripping the staff in one hand, the elf pulled the weapon away to help raise herself from the dirt._

_Vivienne strutted circles around the Herald as she gripped the metal in her hands._

_“Legs apart so that you’re grounded and both hands instead of one. You must remember that you are not formally trained; your magic is accustomed to manifesting within but now you must force it to manifest outside. The more control you have, the better, which is why I recommend a metal staff with both hands in use. Something conductive, dear,” the Enchantress pauses to lay her hands on the elf’s balled fists, relaxing the fingers so that the iron is gripped loosely, “This is not a sword so you need not keep a death grip on it. Remember your hands are a catalyst for your power but now you must channel it instead of a simple charge and release. This is why you’re constantly harming yourself, darling.”_

_Harel was fucking surprised._

_Vivienne was never this...helpful._

_In fact, Harel had half a mind to ask what she expected to get out of helping her._

_“I want you to cast a simple chain lightning on the ground in front of me.” came the Orlesian, “Don’t think, just do it.”_

_The Qunari relaxed, keeping a loose grip on her staff as she brought the metal upwards before cranking it sideways above her head. She felt a charge of lightning bubble up her arms as she waited for the burn to catch her._

_Jolting from the tip of her staff, an absurdly weak arc of blue and purple lashed out in front of Vivienne who carried a look of muted pride._

_The staff clattered in front of her as the elf rushed forward, catching a look of complete and utter surprise from the Orlesian mage as she bowled Vivienne over in a bear hug._

_“I DID IT!!! THANK YOU!!! MYTHAL, VIVIENNE, THANK YOU!!!” the elf squealed as she shouted into the Enchantress’ shoulder._

_“Unhand me!” Vivienne demanded in a voice laden with acid, “Inquisitor, this is highly unbecoming of you! Unhand me!!!”_

_“Thank you so much!” was all Harel said before she finally released the Orlesian mage who looked beyond furious._

_The horned elf paid no mind, her green eyes shining with unfettered joy._

_The muffled laughter of a Seeker could be heard nearby as she watched the scene. Vivienne never once looked so baffled by anything; what a show it was._

_All it took was an excitable elf to forcibly squeeze the poshness out of her._

_The Inquisitor had her hands on the Orlesian’s shoulders, only to have them fly off after she covered her skin in a formidable ice slick._

_The plucky thing shook her hands as they recovered from the severe cold, laughing the entire time._

_But not at Vivienne._

_At everything._

_She was just happy._

The Enchantress set the book down, turning her eyes to the vaulted ceiling of Skyhold’s grand hall.

Though many of the books she had Bull bring focused on the nature of magic in relation to Tranquility, she also had him collect a few other tomes in the past.

Beginners spellcasting, novice thaumaturgy and staff care techniques for various schools of magic.

Before this whole mess, though she would never admit it out loud, she thought if the elf couldn’t come to the Circle then the Circle would come to her.

Harel was impossible but she was such an eager student.

The Enchantress hoped that lesson was not their last even though she knew it was.

* * *

The scouts took a step back as a gloved hand slammed down on the floor. No one dared to comment, instead, they went on with their business.

It was not wise to anger an already stressed and dangerous woman.

Within the second, she regained herself, eyes turning up to the icon of Andraste, her expression tempered but boiling underneath.

Again, the Maker spits in her face. Again He makes His loyal followers suffer. Again He takes and takes and **fucking** takes without ever once giving.

He asks so fucking much.

It’s been a very, very hard situation to deal with. A test of faith no one should be forced to undergo yet here they were, pressed under the Maker’s thumb once more.

Would they be crushed?

Maybe.

They certainly felt the burden of the problem breaking their backs already.

Before she knew it, her forehead met her knee as her arms hung limply to her sides. Blue eyes closed, trying to find peace despite everything that was against them.

But every time she went back into her mind, she could hear the crying.

_Tawny hands had bent the Qunari’s head down, lips crashing together despite the news. Green eyes, passive and clear stared ahead as the kiss was quite literally stolen from Harel. Josephine brought their foreheads to meet, her sobbing sawing through her chest with every breath._

_Leliana had reached her hand out to uncouple the pair but she retracted for a brief moment, allowing the diplomat to say her goodbyes. As far as Josephine was concerned, the Harel that she found herself courted by was dead._

_Only the body remained._

_The Inquisitor continued staring ahead, making no motions to remove herself, standing as still as a doll being shoved around by its owner._

_“Harel, please! You’re in there, I know it.” came the fervent pleas from the crying woman, “Please come back.”_

_“I don’t understand what you mean. I’m here.” said the monotone elf, her expression unchanging as she spoke._

_Dark hands found themselves balled into trembling fists before stilling, the leather of the horned elf’s coat squeaking from the pressure._

_Then they shot over to the Qunari’s shoulders, shaking her as vigorously as a woman of the pen could, desperation, anger, denial, grief flashed in the Ambassador’s eyes._

_“HAREL!!!” Josephine choked out in a forced shout, frustration blatant on her tear-stained face._

_The Spymistress had to step in before things got so much worse. She lunged for the diplomat, pressing ruffled arms flat against her dress as she restrained the normally painfully civilized Antivan._

_Josephine struggled at first, bending forward in the crushing embrace before going limp, her whole body sagging to match gravity as Leliana caught her descent. They found themselves on the floor as the Mistress turned her hysterical friend into her chest, shielding the Ambassador’s vision from the sight of the lost soul._

_Though muffled in chainmail, the weeping cut through the air as a leather-gloved hand pressed against a now ragged bun._

_It wasn’t Harel’s fault._

_Leliana kept these words in her mind as she gazed up to glare into quiet green eyes._

_It wasn’t Harel’s fault._

_Even so, she wanted to fucking kill her._

She took in a deep breath, allowing the air to carve a path of forced strength into her body. In one motion, the Spymaster stood, snapping up like a marionette pulled by strings.

Plucky watched her from his perch, his eyes curious and sad. He wanted to flutter over to Leliana but he could sense his owner wanted to be alone both in body and mind.

Chainmail clicked together as she turned away from the altar, her body propelled as if it was being controlled. She couldn’t stand staying in the Rookery for too long, not when there was so much work to do, not when they needed to scour every possible source for solutions. 

If Corypheus didn’t already know about the Nightmare’s intervention, then they could still use this time wisely. Without the power of the Fade, Harel was just another civilian, but worse.

Even if they dressed her in armour and sent her into the field guarded by her companions, she’d be at risk.

Their reputation would also be at risk.

Maker.

Leliana found herself moving down the stairs, each foot landing precisely on the steps.

She had a moment to discharge her frustration. It wouldn’t do to flop herself everywhere and show her emotions like a petulant child.

The scent of old books came to her as she walked into the library rotunda; breezing past the creature table and its Tranquil researcher. All niceties were lost on her, her mind too full to consider being kind.

From his lovely little corner space, Dorian sat with his normally perfect face marred by a mite of exhaustion and worry. He had been using his Tevinter contacts and a few Magisterium resources to pry any information on Tranquility and its formulation.

Within the capital, it was a last resort to make a mage Tranquil but only if they proved to be a danger to the people. Even so, what constituted a grave error in morality and endangerment was still in debate when it came to the corrupt province.

He was drinking tea, a bridge that connected him and Bull despite... _everything_. If he ever went Tranquil, would Bull react the same way? The great beast certainly had a lot of feelings, in fact, Dorian was certain the Qunari would rampage before breaking down into tears. It truly was a good thing their Ambassador had some control over herself despite the circumstances.

He took another sip of the Seheron blend.

It relaxed him as much as his tense mind would allow as he stared out the window of his little cubby. He knew the Spymistress was approaching but ever the showman, he pretended not to notice her.

Even though she knew he knew that she was coming.

“Any update on the Minrathous council?” the Mistress said, hands clasped behind her back.

A manicured hand waved lazily in her direction as Dorian continued to look out the window.

“You know how it is, Nightingale,” he spoke through after a sip of tea, “We Imperium scum exist to make things complicated.” he closes his eyes briefly, “They’re not too keen on sharing any information on the logistics of the Tevene Tranquility process unless they get something salacious in return.”

A heavy sigh came echoing from the blue hood as Lelieana brought a hand to pinch her nose bridge, “Did I not say I could get them information on the leaders of Kont-aar?” her teeth clenched before releasing, “What games are they playing now?”

Despite the situation, Dorian gave a small chuckle as he shifted in his chair, one leg draping over the other with precision, “They find our Inquisitor intriguing,” he says slowly, “And would like to know more about her.” he finally meets Leliana’s stare as a small smirk, devoid of charm settles on his face, “The novelty of our Herald has sparked interest in some of the higher ranking mages. To put it simply, I believe they find her kind an interesting...commodity.”

“They wish to find more like her.” Leliana hissed, “For what? Slaves? Testing subjects?”

A tilt of the head.

Dorian pondered, a humming noise as his only answer before he spoke again, “As there's been no living records of Qunari Elves, this magical ability coupled with her blood heritage makes her something worth studying. They refuse to inform us unless they can examine her.” Dorian’s grip tightens around his cup, “Of course, we can’t have that.”

  
  


More bad news. The Imperium was being selfish with their information; they asked too much as there was no way she’d let them touch the Inquisitor. Having to treat them as a source was bad enough but they couldn’t find out about the Tranquility or her Somniari blood.

The land of backstabbing was playing off their subtle desperation and she knew it.

The sound of pages turning kept distracting Leliana from her thoughts; she had half a mind to snap at the citizens leafing through the library.

But she couldn’t.

Stay calm.

“Before your head explodes, how about we trade a tidbit for a tidbit, Spymaster,” Dorian spoke as he brought the teacup to his lips, “any information, no matter how small can provide a lead. Tell them something small about our dear Fen’Harel and maybe they’ll open their jaws long enough for us to steal a piece.”

She tugged at her leather gloves, suddenly all too uncomfortable with the way her emergency dagger sat against the material. If they managed to get anything from the Imperium, she could send her contacts out to exploit any route they found till more was uncovered.

People could hide their secrets, but hidden did not mean lost.

“I will see to the uncovering if you see to satisfying their curiosity,” blue eyes turned soft for just a moment before they sharpened under the gaze of the mage, “Consult with Josephine regarding possible variations of informing them.”

There was a small pause before the Tevinter mage found himself thinking on the Spymistress’ words.

A Qunari elf spinning the Ambassador in her grasp came to mind and he wondered if he'd ever see the diplomat suffer such a saccharine indignity ever again.

“They’re quite the pair you know,” Dorian said with a humourless laugh, a silent pain evident in his expression, “With her paramour Tranquil, our Ambassador is now colder than ice. She’s still very courteous, of course, but she’s brought out that noble air I’ve seen Vivienne flaunt,” he brings his hand to his knee, “A snobbish facade that’s soaked in diplomacy, but not a hint of the sugary sweetness she attacks dignitaries with.”

Leliana’s glad she never took her hood down; people would have seen the troubled look on her face. A look that could decimate the morale of an entire faction.

Even so, she couldn’t bring her mask up as quickly.

Josie was turning into her now.

The bitter, cold-hearted turn had started all because of that _fucking_ Qunari elf getting into…

No...it wasn’t her fault…

But dammit all.

“All we can do now is hope, Spymaster,” the Tevinter mage spoke to the window, “You’ve heard of Cassandra’s plan, yes?”

“Indeed, though Solas is proving to be more of an obstacle than I hoped.”

A hand raises to stop the Nightingale in her tracks.

“Solas is correct in his fears, mind you he takes Ages to decide on anything, but reversing this Rite may cause a greater imbalance in our Inquisitor. She may be our downfall regardless of which route is taken. Surely, you who sees and knows everything has considered this lose-lose possibility.”

The Mistress took a step forward to lean against a bookcase, her attention focused solely on the mage, her words forming in her head, thinking of how to respond.

And then it came to her, quietly slinking into her mind, unseen and unheard, dormant in her memories till her time of need came running.

_Kost_

A plucky Qunari elf once lectured her on peace, on resolving things without blood, on a path of mercy.

On hope that people can change.

On hope that one is not fated to act as they are branded.

Hope.

Like a flower blooming on a dying bush, a sight beheld by a Chantry laysister who saw there was still beauty in the world, still hope.

Still reason in a world often smote by the Maker.

The words came out before she could stop them, a gentle tone she hadn’t used since telling an old story about constellations to a Dalish Warden.

“It isn’t set in stone, Lord Pavus. She may emerge victorious and no matter the side effects of the Rite, we will support her in her endeavour. We must keep hope that everything will turn out for the best.” blue eyes turn away from Dorian, “Just as we must come to terms with every possibility, both good and bad.”

Reaching a hand into his pouch, Dorian withdrew a small box with gold trimmings and a small ribbon tying it together, his attention on the Mistress' words but his eyes on the pouch.

And once more, Leliana changed her expression to one of surprise, “Are those-”

“Candied chocolates, just for you my frightening friend,” came a chipper remark from the mage, “As thanks for your help with Magister Telani.”

Skin met leather as the box was handed off to the Spymistress, the delight in her eyes quickly shutting away once she realized how easily she let her mask slip.

And there was a knowing grin on Dorian’s face, damn that wonderful man.

She let the expression return, just for a while longer as she pocketed the candies.

A smile every once in a while won’t actually kill her.

Hopefully.

* * *

Another drop of sweat fell into the stone grouting. It pooled in the small canal until another drop joined it. All appointments and questions were fielded elsewhere; not now, not now, he needed time, not now.

It started this morning.

He got up as usual but his skin felt like several people were standing on him. The sky pressed down, the colours too dull. Everything felt flat and dull.

Everything felt as dead as their Herald’s personality.

He had tried to calm the shaking in his hand thrice but it just kept coming back.

Before Adamant, it was bad.

Now, it’s _worse_.

Cullen stood over his desk, a gauntlet coming up to scrub through his perfectly styled hair.

Looks be damned, he was suffering.

Every clink of metal in his armour sent a spike of pain through his head. His throat felt like it was full of sand despite the tankards of water he gulped down.

The former Templar tried to stand straight but he was being pushed down by an unseen force.

Unseen to all but him.

The craving doubled as it screamed into his soul; a once sweet song tying him to his power now hellbent on forcing him out of his skin.

He made the mistake of turning his eyes forward, only to find the room spinning.

He didn’t even hear the loud clatter of his armour against the stone.

The screaming grew as he felt nausea roil in his stomach; his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on a world made of blurring, bleak shapes.

A steel-plated hand came to rest on the floor in front of his eyes; staring as if to will the energy into his body.

_Get up._

_Get up._

_You conquered Adamant while craving, you can do it now while nothing breathes down your neck._

There was a small spark of energy in his shoulder as he felt his joints connect in a slow motion to push him off the ground. Though the cool stone felt good on his sweating, sweltering skin, his pride wouldn’t allow him to squirm on the floor like a noble with a tummy ache.

Hoisting himself up on willpower alone, Cullen got into a sitting position before swaying just a little. His eyes focused on the dark wood of his desk, his stare pouring over each whorl and pock within the aged material.

He pushed himself back against the wall, ignoring the uncomfortable fit of his armour against the stones. Focus on anything but this, anything but how you feel right now. Focus.

_FOCUS!_

His men needed him, he couldn’t just sit on the floor like a child.

The Inquisitor needed him.

Harel needed him to be strong. To raise this Inquisition from the depths it had fallen since their leader’s incapacitation. 

And he needed _it._

He didn’t realize his arms were moving him, his spine stretching and his legs pushing against the floor until he found himself crawling over to the lowest bookshelf. Shaking, plated hands skimmed over the books, eyes darting over each name, each leather-bound embossed cover until he reached his goal.

_King’s Gambit: Chess Stratagem of the Ferelden Circle._

Yanking the book from its tight fit, the Commander tried to hold the damn thing steady, his nerves shot, his eyes wide and desperate.

But the trembling of his hands only served to tip the book from his palms, falling away onto the floor with an odd, muted rattle instead of a dull thump.

Cullen bit his bottom lip to contain himself, Maker he must have looked like a damned mess, like an uncontrolled fiend.

A bead of sweat met his plated hand as he fumbled with the tome before lifting it up and prying the spine open with his thumbs. His desperation coupled with his strength made easy work of the musty leather, shredding the once sealed tear within seconds.

He could hear the screaming turn to singing, Maker yes, **Maker YES.**

All angry, clumsy movements became precise, not wanting to harm his only chance at silencing the noise.

Index finger and thumb together, he plucked a small clear bottle from the spine, allowing it to roll into his palm as he blinked the sweat from his eyes to stare at his salvation.

Lyrium.

His last hidden stash of the blue song.

It wasn’t a lot but it would do.

It had to do.

It was a desperate time, he needed to be ready.

Excuse after excuse yelled from his mind to justify his fall from grace and though his pride tried to bellow from the background, the screaming sickness of his Lyrium withdrawal only shrieked louder.

Why wasn’t the blue as blue?

His blurring vision and sweat stinging eyes narrowed to look at the bottle in hand.

WHY WASN’T IT BLUE?!

Maker, it was clear.

MAKER IT WAS **FUCKING** EMPTY!!!

Without hesitation, the ex-Templar crushed the bottle in his hand as he tried to stifle a scream in his throat.

**FUCKING** LELIANA! IT HAD TO BE! **IT HAD TO BE! WHO ELSE WOULD HAVE KNOWN?!**

His fist clenched tightly as he turned to face the wall, metal meeting the stone for a split second before he went back to his spiral.

And it was like the melting of frost in spring, his immediate, vicious shift from unbridled anger, to denial, to depression.

He would have thought the water running down his face was sweat if he couldn’t also hear the pitiful sniffling coming from himself.

How the fuck could he be a leader? How the fuck could he lead men knowing that he couldn’t even beat his own addiction? Every tear punctuated a new doubt that once lay dormant in his mind, the fears taking over, the pain, the anguish, the _hunger_.

How?

He closed his fist tighter, allowing the small shards of glass to embed itself into the leather lining. In his mind, he felt the screaming call him pathetic for hoping that one shard would make its way through, to inflict pain knowing that he deserved it for cheating his recovery.

He wanted to suffer, but different from this.

He wanted to be punished for his weak fucking mind.

Blinking to get the water out of his vision, Cullen opened his clenched fist to see the shards resting in his palm, tiny, little dangers stopped by the thick lining of his armour.

He tried to wipe his tears away with the underside of his other gauntlet, brushing the sweat and frenzied crying from his face to try and clear his vision.

And he stopped.

For in his palm lay bits of glass circling and dusting a tightly rolled parchment.

With careful fingers, he plucked the semi-ruined, crinkled page as he let the glass fall away, all attention focused on unrolling the mystery item.

Shifting the corners with his thumbs, he unravelled the mini scroll, looking over the scrappy, spiked handwriting within.

_You fucking prick._

The first sentence took him off guard with a confused bark of laughter. Words he thought he’d never hear again washing over the screaming in his mind.

_If you see this, you know I’m fucking disappointed. Come on, Stanton, COME ON! I didn’t just help Sera prank your damn desk just for the fuck of it! The girl’s like a hound! She can sniff out any secret given enough time. She has people, you know._

Ah.

So it was Sera who found his stash.

Leliana really should try to use her as a scout instead of letting her roam as the local menace.

_Either way, I know that if you’re digging in here, you’re on your last legs, but you know what, that’s ok. We all make mistakes, even grumpy ass Templars like you. When I said I’d be there to help you, I fucking meant it. You’re our Commander but you’re also a good man. If you slip down the slope, we’ll catch you. I’m running out of space so I’ll make it quick._

_Shield bash that fucking addiction. Send it into the snow._

_I know you can do it._

_Make me proud but more importantly, make yourself proud, Stanton._

_Your loving mother,_

_Harel_

Brown eyes closed, taking in the words as he felt a deep breath force its way into his system. The screaming was still loud, his head still hurt and he still felt absolutely terrible but…

He’ll try to make himself proud and if not for him, then for the soldiers who looked up to him.

For the Inquisition.

He tried to push himself up from the ground but his muscles felt weak so he remained.

One second to breathe, then another to get his ass up and fight this fucking addiction.

An armoured glove gripped the note tightly, but not enough to tear it accidentally. His mind was set even though his body still ached. Think outside not inside, bring your mind away from the screaming.

Birds tweeting, people talking, the wind blowing, pages fluttering.

For a moment, less than a second, the image of a hopping Qunari elf filled his mind, her eyes wild and a grin stretched wide. A white braid whipped around her head as she shot flames down her arms, a profanity, loud and clear, escaping her rarely soured expression.

Maker, give her back.

* * *

It was very Nevarran of Josephine.

Though the Inquisitor would rather get back to studying the many tomes littered on her shelf, she found herself being squeezed tightly on her bed.

But it didn’t bother the Qunari elf, as she remained on her side, staring ahead, only blinking when necessary.

There was an ear pressed into her back, listening to her heartbeat as the arms held without any indication of letting go.

Josephine couldn’t bring herself to look at the elf, the only thing bringing her any modicum of comfort was the same breath, the same beating heart that went on regardless of the emotions inside.

It was her only connection to the person once known as Harel.

Even then, it only provided barely an ounce of solace.

That’s why it was Nevarran of her; like a Mortalitasi in the Grand Necropolis hailing their dead despite them being long gone.

It wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, but Harel was indeed still alive and everyone was trying their damndest to bring her back.

The Herald was like a statue in the bed, the only movement being the breath in her chest.

Not even a word of protest.

Grey eyes closed as she pressed her forehead against the Qunari’s spine, taking in the scent of Arbor Blessing and Elfroot.

She wondered if there was no chance of Harel returning; if the smell would forever remind her of the person she lost.

A smile flickered in her mind, gentle eyes reflecting the firelight; the word _Kadan_ echoing a smitten melody in her heart.

Would she ever hear that voice again?

Cotton was fantastic for absorbing tears.

She thought she had cried enough but her hubris was easily tested; crumbling away easily once she allowed herself to get lost in her thoughts.

Which is why she buried herself in her work, her quill forever moving, her face expressionless and cold.

It was necessary despite the frightened looks she got from the servants and messengers. If she dared let the mask slip, she would find herself on the floor again.

Damn her Antivan blood.

Damn her weak nerves.

Damn every single over-emotional part of her.

And now she took to grasping the Tranquil mage, no longer anchoring a lost soul. Now she latched on to anchor herself.

Slender fingers weaved their way into the spaces of the Inquisitor’s marked hand, and though there was no reciprocating force behind the hold, it helped Josephine feel just a bit better.

Nothing about this was healthy.

The grey hand in hers remained stiff as she listened again for the heartbeat. Knowing that she’d never hear that laugh again, knowing that she’d never see that smile again, knowing-

It was immediate.

There was no preparation, no warning sign.

Josephine’s tears stopped, halting within the second, her mind coming to a screeching stop, every part of her stilling like unbroken water in a lake.

Green sparks danced their way up Harel’s shoulder, a sign.

The Ambassador knew what that magic meant as she focused on the feeling being given to her.

Muffled, muted, masked.

The embodiment of nothing. The well has been closed, a lid covering the top. There’s no music, no colour, no will or want. Nothing. But underneath the lid, something is screaming. An illusion is shouting through the deafening silence.

There are no feelings yet she feels the colour gold, she hears it against her skin. Something reaching from the black earth, a bridge connecting, _something trying to do_ **_something_**.

And the sparks stop, cutting off and rendering the window into the mage’s soul shut once again.

The flames crackling brings her out.

Harel’s breathing hasn’t changed and the Qunari doesn’t acknowledge what just happened.

But Josephine does.

The Ambassador pries herself away from the stoic woman before gently turning the elf on her back as best as she could despite the horns. Green eyes follow Josephine with nonchalance before the Herald finally breaks her silence.

“Is something wrong?” comes the flat question.

If Josephine didn’t control herself, she’d start crying again. Instead, she kneeled on the sheets, her hand lacing with the marked palm as she looked at the placid Qunari.

“Did you do that, Harel?” the diplomat spoke seriously, “Those green sparks. That magic.”

The question goes into Harel’s ear as she processes the response. Then she speaks, slowly, quietly, all the same.

“No.”

Of course.

It was too much to ask, wasn’t it?

Josephine brought her free hand up to comb through her hair as she began thinking again. It was terribly late in the night but she needed to talk to Solas about this. The magic that connected them reemerged. He would want to know, even if he was currently wandering the Fade.

Damn propriety, damn everything.

Any information she could gather on this problem was worth the apostate’s minor annoyance at being woken up.

She squeezed the grey palm before releasing, a green glow emanating from the Anchor which clung to the calloused hand and stretched slightly into her own.

She didn’t know what to make of that magic, what to do about the mark, about this **thing** that connected them.

Slipping out of the sheets, Josephine put on her night shoes, a hand reached over to the end table to an already lit candle.

Even as she moved around the bed towards the stairs, Harel’s dead green eyes never stopped following her.

It was eerie and disturbing.

She wanted her Harel back.

White nightdress flowing around her form and candle in hand, it was time for the Wandering Wraith of Skyhold to consciously walk the halls.

* * *

The apostate was far less offended at being woken up. He had roused from his dreams to see the commotion at his door, only to find a slightly harried Ambassador holding a candle, her nightdress balled in her free hand so it didn’t drag on the ground.

Solas made no comments, only allowing the diplomat in with haste. If she roused at such a late hour only to rattle his door, it must have been important. She relayed to him the situation which only made him ponder more. A connection and a hold. Something reaching out. Truly, it was interesting to consider; this must have been the magic shielding the Herald from the Nightmare.  
  
It was indeed still pulsing with life, trying to break free and tether.  
Trying to remind the Qunari elf she was still alive.  
  
The reach was weak, maybe if they poured lyrium into it? Perhaps a severe emotional or magical shock to force the helping stream forward.  
  
The mark was of the Fade; it was indeed possible something was trying to make its way through.  
  
Maybe there was hope after all.

There was a small smile on Solas' face as he considered each possibility, something that gave Josephine just the smallest inkling of hope.

He needed the night, but he assured her that he would be able to make more progress with the newfound information. 

Now Josephine sat at the edge of the Inquisitor’s bed as she watched the woman work at her desk, a quill grasped between most of the fingers of her right hand.

That explained her penmanship.

Unbound, Harel’s white hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the candlelight and colouring the strands with bits of red and orange.

The light managed to make her look less stoic, it framed her, gently casting shadows over her. She looked studious instead of Tranquil; an expression that made Josephine less upset as she watched the Inquisitor work.

Maker only knows how long the elf would be scratching away at that page.

Harel didn't seem to sleep often.

Curling herself up on the sheets, the Antivan stared out the balcony door. Normally the Qunari kept it closed due to her fear of heights and the fear of Josephine falling to her death.

Now those fears were gone.

As she took in the tapping of a quill against an inkpot, the diplomat felt her eyes close, her body and mind were tired from the moment Harel stepped into the War Room as a Tranquil.

Her throat was raw from crying, her voice just slightly shot from quarrelling with Solas about his hesitance to reverse the Rite.

In that moment, she was the opposite of her paramour.

A wave of uncontrolled emotions bubbling to the top, forcing their way through her years of careful training. The Game’s teachings were worthless to her.

She felt useless that she couldn’t do more to help Harel. 

Josephine curled her body inwards, her legs meeting her chest as she balled herself up. It was like the garden, a time she felt afraid and lost, shivering as she waited for the horned elf to appear.

But this time she was alone.

There would be no Qunari with a kind smile; humming songs to help her sleep. No reassurances in a language people called barbaric.

Though she felt unsafe and troubled, slumber claimed her minutes later, the only song she heard was the endless writing of a pen.

* * *

And once more, it came.

_Bloodsoaked and cruel._

_Spinning and swirling with no escape._

_Screaming, shouting, slicing, suffocating._

_Arms pressed tightly together, cowering on a bridge, no escape._

She kicked up the sheets, her heart racing, eyes wide but unaware. Scrambling forward, barefoot on the cold stones she began walking, confused, unsure yet panicked. She needed to...to what? Hide?

Josephine kept her hand skating over the sheets as if to guide her way around the bed. The fireplace held little more than glowing embers; heavy shadows still cloaked the room making everything feel like it pushed in more.

Her breathing was short, stuttered as if her lungs forced the air out before she could get it in. Harel watched her from her seated position on the bed, green eyes following the movement but making no attempt to assist.

The Ambassador continued forward as her body shivered from an immediate coldness that draped over her body.

Things were starting to clear but not entirely.

The shadows still skittered around the walls, making her jump at every twisting figure. Her heartbeat began to pick back up as she made her way towards the entrance.

Everything felt like a dream, hazy and unreal yet the torpor in her bones tried fighting against a will to run.

Her hand touched the bannister as she turned wide grey eyes to the rest of the room. The Qunari still watched her though the Anchor glowed in the night, forcing the shadows away from it.

She shouldn't have looked at Harel, the green glow swallowed up her eyes, making her look almost demonic.  
A harmless demon with an empty soul.

With her nerves thrown to the wind, Josephine could barely control herself on the outside and in. Every move was made with a shaking limb, every time she moved her head the world didn't feel real.

Now she felt the room spin away, realizing that she moved without warrant.

Realizing that she was falling.  
  


It was a blur.

Tumbling, turning and hitting every step.

She felt no pain as she went down, even when she crashed into the wall. She just lay at the bottom of the steps wondering if she died, dizziness and adrenaline working in tandem to snap the sleep from her body.

No longer was she wandering.

She looked up at the ceiling, thinking she’d broken her neck, thinking that she couldn’t feel the pain because she felt so numb to the world.

A flash of blue had coated her before her descent, but she thought she was going mad.

The padding of feet against the floor, against the steps, then someone lifting her up, cradling her, pushing her against their chest as they held up her upper half.

The Anchor crackled and flared, sending green magic shooting up the Herald’s left arm, each vein stood out with a green glow as it moved upwards, branching out everywhere under grey skin until each part of the Qunari’s body shone with a web of green lines.

But her eyes, Maker, her eyes.

“Josie.” came a horribly worried tone, a voice that cracked from underuse.

Everything was green, the room lit up in the glow as if another Breach had opened. The Inquisitor held Josephine up, fussing over her in case she’d broken something, an arm wrapped tightly around her back.

“Harel? Is that really you?” the Ambassador squeaked, shocked at the level of emotion being shown.

Those green eyes lit up at the sound of her name. There was a faint blue tinge to the stare, as the veins on her face began to sink back into grey skin, no longer holding the verdant shine. 

"Yes, Kadan. It's me.” there were tears in the Qunari’s eyes that threatened to fall, “I'm so fucking glad my barrier caught you." Harel responded sweetly as she brought a grey hand to brush through the long black hair.

Josephine had so many questions, what happened, how did this happen, what caused all of this, but every single inquiry died as she looked at that growing grin. 

Her Harel was back and at that moment, she didn’t care how. 

Less than a second. 

The Qunari found herself being pulled into an embrace, the sound of laughter bursting off her shoulder in a near-hysterical cackle. A tawny hand held onto the Inquisitor tightly threading through white hair, clinging desperately lest the Herald fades away once more. 

But she stayed.

Pulling herself back, Josephine looked at the smiling elf through blurry eyes. She was crying and for once there was no heartache in her tears. 

They fit together once more as the hands in Harel's hair made their way to her neck, pulling her down into a kiss. 

And she felt those sparks, those feelings, _everything_ she felt when she was first invited to the Inquisitor's quarters when a confession hung heavy between them. 

And those little green sparks danced again, twirling off into the dim light of the room as she felt the warmth blossoming in her heart. 

An echo of an echo of an emotion blazing brightly as the well's cover came off. The screaming stopped. The suffering stopped.

Adoration, bathed in gold and green.

A nibble. 

Gentle at first but growing as Harel took Josephine's bottom lip between her teeth, pulling for a moment then releasing to resume the kiss. 

Though Harel was impulsive, she was never this fervent with her ways. 

The Ambassador had little time to ponder as she yelped into the elf's mouth,a grey hand had snaked its way up her nightdress and began clawing at her thigh. 

Maker.

Josephine pressed a hand into the cotton nightshirt, her nails raking down the elf's chest before coming up under the hem to trail over lithe muscles leading up to a simple breastband.

Before she could resume anything, the diplomat felt herself fly upwards, the Qunari had her braced against her chest as she began walking her little human up the stairs. 

Harel laid her gently on the bed as she lowered herself over the Lady, green eyes shining with tenderness changed to a raw, carnal stare. 

It was a moment she didn't really know how to proceed with but she tried. 

A question had come from her in-between passionate kisses, searing bites and grazing nails. 

Are you sure?

And it was a laugh that met Harel's insecurity; sweet, relieved and absolute.   
  
What started as something gentle, quickly became fevered. Latching bites down the column of a tawny throat which shuddered as it was pierced. Harel bent her head down, fully intent on continuing what she didn't have the stomach for after Adamant's siege. Two grey palms skated up the inside of the white nightdress, halting momentarily at the Antivan's thighs before moving up past her smallclothes. Harel had permission but she wanted to take her time to run her fingers over golden-brown skin that never felt the sting of a blade.  
  
Soft, sweet and silky, her dress and under her dress.  
  
The entire time, the mage kept her teeth on Josephine's throat, slowly nibbling her way down to the hollow between her collarbones before coming back up to catch her lips in another kiss.   
  
Passion clashed with adoration as Josephine tangled her hand back into white hair while the other wound its way around the Inquisitor's back.  
  
Calloused fingertips slipped under the silken cloth of the Lady's underclothes as Josephine gasped into Harel's kiss-swollen lips. Bringing her head to rest against the elf's cheek, she pressed herself into the larger body, willing the mage to continue as her breathless moans brushed against a pointed ear.   
  
Josephine knew the night would be long and deliciously torturous when she felt sharp teeth bite into the corded muscle between her neck and shoulder.  
  
The wolf had fangs, yet as the Ambassador rocked into Harel's hand, she only felt love in the snapping of Harel's jaws. Peppered with kisses to soothe the wound, Harel continued riding the line between ferocious and tame and ferocity could only be controlled for so long.  
  
The heel of Harel's palm ground into Josephine, sending the diplomat's pulse out of control; a heavy blush that once painted her cheeks spread down her bitten neck. She brought her legs up to hook on the mage's body, the hand bunched in white hair gripping harder with each motion.  
  
And it was embarrassing, Maker it was so embarrassing to open herself up in such a shamelessly lustful way; all threads of control snapped, all training was discarded.  
Josephine was now as wild as Harel, savage in her needs and unrelenting in her will to take.  
  
And yet, those green eyes that were devoid of life only minutes ago untangled from the iron grip to watch the panting, unravelling Ambassador squirm beneath her with the most indulgent expression. Harel dipped down for another kiss, savouring how the hard, shallow breaths and small whimpers filled her mouth.   
  
In that moment, the Lady offered the sweetest noises that no one else had the privilege to hear. She broke off the kiss as the whimpering grew; a hand that once wrapped around Harel's back for support now groped around for a marked grey hand. Seeing the movement spurred the Qunari to quickly latch onto the smaller, desperate hand. They laced their fingers together as Josephine dug short nails into the grey skin with each ministration, leaving angry crescent-shaped welts. Harel picked up her pace, interested in what other sounds she could coax out of the thoroughly persnickety woman, only to feel lips crash into her shoulder; a frantic attempt to muffle the cries that would alert all of Skyhold to their activity.  
  
Hot breaths came out faster into the cotton nightshirt as the little human held on for dear life. Each sound came out higher and faster into the fabric, every stroke brought out a sharp, sensual cry that sent shivers down the Herald's spine.  
  
Gentle, loving whispers in Qunlat met the Ambassador's ear, shifting from Common tongue to Elvhen and back again as she felt Josephine stiffen under her, becoming limp under the Qunari. Slowly, the dusky hand released her grip on the grey one, her breathing short but catching slowly. Though it hurt, the Inquisitor brought her marked hand to push back Josephine's head from her shoulder; brushing tendrils of sweat-soaked black hair which clung to her skin as hooded grey eyes stared up at the horned elf.   
  
A thoroughly tender look clouded by lust sparkled in the golden hazel rings around her pupils; the lack of light only helped to cast a soft glow on the Ambassador.  
  
"You are a gift, my Lady." Harel spoke suddenly, all too softly and all too truthfully.  
  
A sweet smile met the elf's confession as the hand in her white hair brought the Inquisitor down for a delicate kiss. One kiss became many as Josephine skated her lips over the Qunari's face, little pecks on her cheeks and nose, on her forehead and eyes; anywhere that could be touched was met with butterfly kisses as words, slow but not too quiet, came off her lips.  
  
" _Mia amore._ "  
  
There was a green glow to the Anchor as Harel felt the words in her ears, doing more than grounding and grappling.  
Filling and fixing.  
  
The memories of being Tranquil were soothed by the words, the horror of being locked away in her mind, the pain of being eaten away, the subtle madness that tried to lunge at her throat not too long ago all died away under the soft touches of a woman who adored her.  
There was no sick fascination in the horns on her head, her status or the oddity of her bloodline. No quickly passing interest in bedding an Ox Rabbit apostate or sparking up a dalliance for a dalliance's sake.  
  
It felt too real and damn it all, Harel's stupid, besotted brain believed it.  
  
_"Mia tesoro."  
  
_Harel didn't need to understand the words as she felt the emotion seep from that doting accented tone.  
  
She just knew.  
  
"Kadan."  
  
It was the last word Josephine said before the mage brought them back together for a kiss.  
  


* * *

  
  
Josephine learned that Harel had sensitive ears and her horns were much stronger than they looked, even when she squeezed them till her knuckles turned white. 

Harel had a talented tongue indeed.

The night went on, through panting, gentle touches, learning, listening until both collapsed boneless and sated. 

They held each other tightly, tawny skin matching silvery grey as black hair billowed out. Josephine pressed her head against the Qunari's bare chest to listen to a beating heart, only removing herself to study the canvas of flesh better. She traced patterns over small scars, bringing a finger up to trace the longest one circling the mage's throat as she heard Harel giggle from the ticklish swipe against her skin.  
The laugh she thought she lost to Tranquility offered itself in a taste.   
  
Harel's body was marred by a rough life, each light line that slashed across the Qunari's skin told a story; one day, Josephine hoped Harel would tell her tales of each old wound as they weaved around each other in the night.  
  
But not now.  
Now, she wanted to cherish what she thought was long lost.   
A thought stopped Josephine half-way through tracing a nail down the valley of Harel's breasts; quickly bringing the finger up to tap the grey skin covering her heart.  
  
Green eyes watched her silently, a strong arm serving as Josephine's pillow.  
  
She brought her head to rest on that beating ribcage again, listening to the thrumming knowing that she wasn't avoiding the absence of a person anymore.  
  
Harel nuzzled into the top of the diplomat's head, breathing in before setting a small kiss down.  
  
" _Mia amore. Mia tesoro_." Harel parrotted into frizzy black hair.

Legs tangled together, bare skin pressed against one another and the sheet as their only clothes, the pair waited for the dawn to come. 

Hands clasped, unwilling to let go.  
  


* * *

He felt something shift in the thin barrier of the Veil. At first, he paid it no mind until the feeling grew stronger. Like gauze stretching over a body, he felt the tension but no tear.  
  
Solas shot up from his desk as he focused on the feeling, anger painting his features before he settled himself.  
  
No.  
  
The Seeker wouldn’t.  
  
Besides, the Veil was stretching, not tearing or forcing.  
  
Moving up from his chair, Solas paced his room, eyes looking up into the Rookery but not to hail the Spymaster; to think.  
  
A binding would cause harm, but there was no feeling of horror drizzling the Keep.  
  
No, this was not forced, the magic of the Anchor clung heavily to this shift, so much so that he could almost see traces of green saturating the air.  
  
He recalled the green sparks Josephine spoke of, he recalled the Anchor, he recalled everything and tried to make sense of it all.  
  
Standing still, the blue flame as his only companion, he realized quite suddenly what had happened.  
  
Something came through the Anchor.  
  
A Spirit pulled itself from the Fade with the mark as its guide; a powerful Spirit.  
  
Buried in Fen’Harel, keeping the Nightmare from eating her fully, was the Spirit that connected her despite Tranquility; lying dormant till the Anchor could flare fully once more.  
  
The magic that connected the pair was a Spirit.  
  
And something brought it through the Fade. Something happened.  
  
Solas had to keep reminding himself it was a Spirit. A familiar touch of the Fade.  
  
A laugh escaped his mouth before he could stop it, his hand coming up to suppress the sound as he thought more on the feeling which came from the Fade; a denizen which sent its aura through the Keep the moment it crossed into this world and back. Solas quickly moved towards his desk to make a note of the novel happening; something he'd need to check when morning came.  
  
How quaint.  
  
A Spirit of Love.  
  
Harel would be more than overjoyed to know she was chosen by one so pure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading.
> 
> I've fallen ill and I cant get up lol but more to come as usual. 
> 
> Yall make my heart go doki doki


	18. Lanterns on the Promenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once more becoming whole as she meets him again  
> Once more she is sent to her darkest place  
> Once more witnessing the stark suffering of who she loves
> 
> Once more berating her impulsive and immature behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!!!!! I love yall
> 
> I'm back and boy oh boy did 2020 bend me over a table and give me the roughest ploughing of my life. Not in a good way.  
> I sincerely appreciate anyone who takes their time to look at my convoluted hellscape of a fic. <3
> 
> While I wrote this, I listened to this song:  
> [Gareth Fernandez-Achilles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7g0NE4I95Q)  
> May just be me, but I feel the song suits this chapter

She laid on her back, the grass pricking her neck as she zoned back in. The smell of dirt and trees filled her senses as she shook her head to dispel any haziness. Spots of sunlight parted the leaves. Chirrups, chittering, cheerful yet ceasing. Harel was in a large clearing that smelled familiar, but this time there was no gravel or stone, just canopies dropping small flowers and leaves on the lush ground.  
  
The trees encircled her, giving her space yet boxing her off from any chance of escaping. While she was fully intent on springing up to run away from any incoming dogs, she felt a calm wash over her.  
  
Peace.

Bringing herself to sit upwards, the horned elf looked for the origin of the calm. There was nothing but the fantasy land as it filtered an evening sun’s rays onto the ground; never changing as if frozen in time. That’s when she looked up at one of the trees to see a leg dangling from a branch while the other lay straight across the wood.

And so, two people sat still within their waking dreams; a Qunari elf and a Tal-Vashoth Ashkaari. A reunion long coming, finally reaching its destination.

Realism wasn’t necessary in the Fade; proven by the instance of Taashath’s movement from the tree to the soft grass in front of Harel. He sat on his heels, his hands reaching out to cradle the young mage’s face, bringing her forwards to gently kiss her brow. 

The world around them grew brighter as if reacting to the emotion, the Anchor flaring in Harel’s palm in response. A feeling, a Spirit, wrapping around the two in a soft green glow, and Taashath, who brushed his nose against white hair, understood the Spirit even when Harel didn’t.

He had felt it before, he had explained, as smaller grey hands relaxed their grip on the grass. In the belly of Wycome, in a dream several days before a job came to the Valo-Kas, was the vision of a child like no other, huddled near an animal pen, confused and unloved yet a healer; a person who walked a path of peace shielded by a green glow.

Days later, he saw her, Fen'Harel, Tama, a student of Vir’Atishan, a small, frightened thing with the potential to become more.

Taashath had told the Inquisitor this story many times before but never had he included the presence of the Spirit or seeing her in his dreams. 

She tilted her head to look into his eyes, gentle brown like a Druffalo, and asked him why.

Why now? Why ignore telling her about this Spirit before? Why ignore the origin of their meeting?

He didn’t reply at first; thinking through his words before speaking as was the norm for an Ashkaari. 

Then he recalled his reason, a simple answer.

_You are a Dreamer and Dreamers are plagued by the presence of Spirits. I thought this land-_ he had pointed to the world around them - _was just the space you inhabited with one of them. Learning has always watched you but Love,_ \- he brings a hand to brush her hair back - _Love has always hovered close to you._

At the mention of Love, the Anchor flares, an event Taashath knows due to the constant news of Skyhold’s Inquisitor. 

They release each other, as the young mage has her hand examined by her mentor. He runs his fingers along the scar, tracing the green web of veins that pulse with a sickening light and then, folds the palm into a fist.

They understood that the mark was growing, and the Ashkaari vowed with his large hand over Harel’s fist, that he would try to help her. 

And like lightning sparking through the sky, the older mage’s form began blurring in the Fade. The instance caught Harel off guard but Taashath quieted her with the whisper of _Kost_. 

They may have found each other again, but time and physical distance threatened to sever them fully.

It was tiring for Harel to keep him there, in their space, when they were so far apart and it hurt her to have to think about letting him go.

But they had reality, Taashath had reminded the Qunari elf, where they would meet again, surely. Little droplets of tears wet the grass, salting the earth below them as the Inquisitor forced herself to accept what was happening. Her dreams before Taashath’s adoption were cold and lonely wanderings in pitch darkness; a morsel for wolf-shaped Demons, a realm of bitter silence.

She despised dreaming before his visit to the Clan, often lacking sleep to dissuade the nightmares, cursing her ability as it brought her nothing but nightmares. 

When she became a member of the Valo-Kas, her dreams became a paradise of new places and scenery, of old memories from different people, of Spirits that came flitting amicably to speak to them.

Before Taashath, it was just a Void.

She wasn’t ready to return.

But he held her tightly in arms accustomed to murder, and continued whispering over and over that they would meet again; even as the sky darkened to match the Herald’s mood and the grass wilted from the grief, he kept her grounded.

He kept her anchored.

_I worried for you for days on end_ \- he breathed softly as she sobbed into his chest - _I sent word so many times and only once I heard from you._

The hiccuping tears halted from the words. The world around them froze in tandem with the confusion, so poignant was the emotion that all noises stopped.

Harel withdrew herself from the embrace, her expression puzzled and worried.

But as she looked to Taashath, his form once again stuttered; his body blurring powerfully till he was nothing more than a hazy shape against a background of trees. His next words were submerged, his tone, unrecognizable. 

Fen’Harel Adaar understood lightning. She understood the incomparable speed of light but within this moment, the instance of Taashath’s severance left her dizzy.

At once without warning, she was placed in the world she hated the most.

She sat on her heels in a black Void, not knowing where up or down was, not knowing where anything was but the slow seepage of whispers from under her legs; the hissing of Desire and Pride were drowned under the deep cackle of a Demon who threatened to make her Tranquil once more.

Forcing herself up, Harel took off in a sprint as she tried shaping the Demons into Wisdom and Purpose but her mind was too shaken, too scared, her breath coming too fast to halt the progression of their corruption. The Nightmare Demon scarred her soul to recognize it as something to run from; something unbeatable that was better deserted than faced.

The lesson of Adamant was fresh in her mind, the gurgling of blood in her throat from her deathly dream still present, her mental prison, the claustrophobic coffin of Tranquility still clawing trauma into her blood.

All her instincts screamed to run. 

Wolves growled in the empty chasm, several red eyes glinting from all around her, a green light peeking from her hand once again as her left arm burned from the molten pain of the mark’s activation. A stampede rumbled in the cavernous space as if an army was approaching to bear down on her.

Her fear pushed her forward but in this inky Void, her running seemed to take her nowhere; her limbs growing heavy as she felt the hot breath of some beast against her neck. 

A familiar glow enveloped her before stretching forward to tear open a Rift within the Fade. From the swirling vortex came a hand, then an arm which was attached to the body of _something_.

It hovered halfway out of the tear as Harel ran faster to outpace the phantom charge and its legion of horrors, her hand outstretched to grab onto the person within the tear much like long ago with the spirit of Justinia in the Conclave.

Ethereal fingers laced together with grey as it yanked her through the spinning, emerald Rift. Green eyes recalled the briefest glance of the figure before she fell through.

An Elven woman wearing Valaslin; a pattern she was unable to see clearly in the blinding light of Love’s gleam.

* * *

The bird calls were different. They were screeching, whooping sounds instead of the light twittering she was accustomed to. Harel was looking into an infinite sky, a dome of bright blue with no clouds overhead and a viciously burning sun. There was a moment of disorientation before she lowered her gaze to what lay in front of her. 

Buildings bunched together and clung to a sloping mountain overlooking the sea. Everything was a fitting mismatch of colours and style; bleached cobblestone and brightly coloured homes that wound their way down the mountain. Red tiled roofs baked in the sun as the path of homes curved downwards to meet the docks. 

Harel had seen this place before in her travels as a mercenary and at first, questioned why she was brought there until she spotted a curious sight. 

A wall with a dusty brick lip jutted from the ground; a seawall that protected those near it from a steep fall into the ocean. On top of the wall was a boy with a wicked grin and mischievous eyes, dark skin contrasting the white shirt he wore as his leather shoes kicked up brick dust. He held his arms out to balance himself as he walked along the wall, ignoring death and tempting fate with each wobbling step. 

_“TORRIE!”_ came a girl’s shrill voice from behind the Inquisitor, the sound of slippers tapping furiously against stone, growing louder, _“_ _EUSTORGIO DONATO AMATORE, GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT NOW!!!”_

Harel saw the young girl rush past her, her eyes widening before she breathed a small surprised bark of laughter.

A simple indigo dress with no flourishes but a golden bow tied behind her back, her long hair curlier due to the humidity in a low ponytail held together by gold ribbons. Her skin, much darker due to the unrelenting heat.

Young Josephine scolded the boy before yanking him down from the wall, one hand gripping Torrie’s arm tightly, the other gesticulating with her rant. 

He shrunk under her reprimands before apologizing; his light brown eyes lost all mischief. Little Josie mulled over his apology before letting go of his arm, still peeved at the dangerous act; sun-kissed cheeks puffing up in irritation.

Harel moved closer to watch the scene unfold as Torrie spoke, his words hard to hear in the hazy dream and over the squawking of seagulls. 

_“I’m sorry, My Lady, I won’t do it again,”_ he said before lifting little Josephnine’s hand to his lips.

At first, a blush, well-hidden due to her skin tone, erupted on the little Antivan's face, before she shook off his grip and grabbed Torrie’s arm to pull him away from the seawall. 

_“You’re lucky I don’t tell your father,”_ she says angrily, a far cry from the restrained tone Harel was accustomed to hearing.

The Qunari elf watched the pair carve a path towards an estate, a modest yet elegant home that held stylistic creeping vines within its weathered brickwork. Following the pair, Harel looked into the house’s open doors to see a foyer stacked with paintings; an art studio. 

Her eyes deceived her once more as the world in front of her changed, flowing with the current of the dream. The scenery melted away into yet another memory.

The scent of books and ink-filled the room as Harel found herself in a classroom lined with joined tables and chairs. She was in a sea of young women, all of whom paid strict attention to the lecture on Nevarran dining customs. Green eyes scanned the crowd before hearing the scratching of a quill in her ears. Turning her head, she saw teenaged Josephine dutifully writing away despite the tense firmness in her jaw and the bored look in her eyes. The gentle looping letters halted before she began tapping holes into the parchment. Her hair was done in an Orlesian braid and her clothing, far more muted for a professional setting; dark blue dress with golden embroidery spanning the tapered sleeves.

Harel looked around, ignoring the lecture as she saw another of the young gentry ball up a wad of paper before throwing it at Josephine’s head. The page hit its mark, bouncing off her braid and on the floor next to her. The surprise in her grey hazel eyes was undercut by annoyance as if this was not the first time this happened. 

Shifting closer, Harel watched Josephine open the page before reading the words.

Heavy, scratchy, bold scrawl filled the parchment, each word a new reason to flinch.

_Go back to the brothel, Whore._

_No one cares about Antivans._

_Not a copper to your name._

_Impoverished pretender._

**_Get out of Orlais, Montilyet._ **

Rage built inside of the Inquisitor at the sight of those words; Josephine closed her eyes briefly before stashing the paper under her notes. The Antivan took a breath before picking up her quill again, the shine of tears in her eyes threatening to fall but halting.

She wouldn’t cry, not yet at least.

Harel reached out a hand to touch the younger version of Josephine, only to find herself sitting elsewhere.

Yet again, the dream changed, placing Harel on a fainting couch in a poorly lit room. The horned elf tried to sharpen her vision but the Fade resisted her attempt; her Somniari abilities lacking the fine-control necessary to manipulate other people’s dreams. Instead, she got up to walk around, noticing the balcony next to her, the open door letting in the moonlight. Then the sound of flint scraping, before a flame lit a candle. 

Harel turned her eyes back to see the same teenaged Josephine lighting the candle. Her hair was out, a familiar white nightdress was on. There was a brief sound of cursing from the balcony; the Antivan rushed past Harel and leaned over the bannister, gripping and pulling something or someone up into the room. Never before had Harel seen Josephine behave like this; the normally controlled woman looked more akin to Iron Bull grasping an angry, squirming Dragonling than the Inquisition's esteemed and reserved diplomat. 

With a solid tug, the climber was pulled up, flying forwards to land on top of the Antivan, who in turn, cursed at the aftermath.

Much older now, Torrie still held the mischievous glint in his eyes as he laughed at the string of curses before silencing the girl with a kiss.

The Qunari elf made a face at the sight as she watched the two pick themselves off the ground and move towards the bed. Harel looked elsewhere, going so far as to move towards the balcony so that she wouldn’t witness what she knew was going to happen. Laying her forearms on the bannister, she looked at the buildings and alleyways of Orlais and the grand difference it held to Antiva.

And once again, while taking a breath, she was back on the fainting couch, watching Josephine sleep underneath a light sheet, nightdress discarded to the ottoman as Torrie paced the room quietly, a dagger in his hand catching the moonlight as he turned it about.

 _“There is danger to being a Bard, Torrie,”_ Josephine mumbled, her eyes never opening.

The young man nearly dropped the dagger on his foot before catching the spinning blade by the pommel. 

_“I’d say it's more dangerous when you scare me while I’m holding weapons,”_ he drawls in a thick Antivan accent, _“And I wish you’d stop doing that,”_ he sheathes the dagger in its scabbard before placing it on the vanity, _“I can never tell when you’re actually sleeping.”_

There is a clinking that sounds with the movement of sheets as Josephine rises and Torrie moves towards the bed. In his hands is a glinting, swaying rope of metal that was too difficult to make out in the darkness. Josephine sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest as she lights another candle; seating himself on the edge of the bed, Torrie holds the metal object in his hand.

_“Close your eyes, amore”_ he says quietly.

After rolling her eyes, Josephine closes them, waiting a while before she yelps at the cold touch of metal on her collarbones. 

_“Torrie!”_ she nearly shrieks, her hands flying to the chain as he laughs.

Acclimatizing to the cold, Josephine brings her hands up to inspect the item as it reflected gold from the orange hue of the candle’s flame. 

_“I meant to give it to you as soon as I climbed up but…”_ his eyes look towards the nightdress before moving back to Josephine who regarded the chain with wonder.

As Josephine regarded the necklace, Harel moved from her spot on the fainting couch, moving towards the bed to look closely at the necklace which pulled at her with familiarity. 

Glittering red stones in gilded, ornate metal.

It was Josephine’s chain of office, the same one she wore every day in the Inquisition.

She saw the two lovers drawn into a kiss, tawny arms thrown over the man’s shoulders and, though this was a memory, Harel still felt a slight sting of envy; something quashed down lest she attracts a demon.

_“Please, please, be a Bard with me,”_ Torrie begged as he brought his lips to her neck, _“Your singing voice is sublime; we can charm the courts together.”_

There’s a small sigh from the Lady Antivan who pulls the young man closer as he speaks. She also wants to protect him but it would be a lie to say she too wasn’t craving the excitement the life of a Bard holds. She leans her head into his, the chain pressed between them, leaving marks on their skin before she quietly, but audibly agrees.

The room feels like it's spinning when she notices where she is. That’s because there’s legions of couples, dancing in tandem with poncy orchestral music which makes Harel wonder if she’s in Halamshiral now. Once again, the Inquisitor scans the crowd, looking for Josephine, seeing no one...that is until she spots her wearing a mask, blending in and out of the crowd as easily as a drop of rain in the ocean. She follows Josephine, slipping through the dream crowd as easily as one would walk through steam. 

Towards the back room, she can see the speed in the Antivan Bard's gait pick up, but not noticeably so, as she parts the crowds without them realizing. Harel tails her through archways and trophy rooms as Josephine begins to alter her clothing, her outfit transforming into an amalgamation of current Orlesian Fall fashion and black hardened leather.

Harel follows closely behind as the halls remain silent, only the sound of fireplaces and the wind against the windows could be heard. Josephine is frightening even as she’s the frightened one; her steps are silent and her eyes, despite fearful, are cold underneath her mask. 

Darting gazes, soft steps and alert stance, the Antivan Bard stalks the halls for the thing that made her rush here in the first place. 

And from the rafters, something drops.

She spins around, her eyes wild, a hand to her chest as she’s been caught off guard, only to look closer to see that it was a tied bundle of cloth.

**A distraction!**  
  
She spins around in time, ducking the punch thrown at her as she falls to the ground, backing away. The other Bard charges, almost catching her in a stomp before she rolls away. Pulling herself up, Josephine tries to think of a plan to stop this Bard before turning on her heel to face him. 

She sees the glint of a dagger and without thinking, pushes him. 

Harel watches as the Bard tumbles down the stairs, his body contorting as it hits each step, his bones crunching loudly as his skull fractures against the landing; his neck bent at an odd angle. 

The dagger tumbles down the steps, clattering uselessly near the deformed body still twitching with life.

Josephine can’t feel her legs, which immediately gives out as she watches the blood pool around the Bard.

Dragging herself to the railing, she descends the steps with care, her body trembling until she’s able to safely collapse near the body.

She wishes she hadn’t come down the stairs. 

Blood seeps into the marble, reddened bubbles of saliva popping over the Bard’s mouth, his mask doing little to cover his last breaths. With shaking hands, Josephine pries the mask off.

And she feels pain, searing pain in her body before it goes numb.

Torrie’s eyes are hazy as if he can’t see, his breath slowing yet he’s somehow still and cruelly, alive _._

Josephine covers her mouth as tears begin to fall in an endless stream, her body hunches in on itself, a silent scream tearing itself from her chest going unheard. She wrenches her own mask off in a fit of mourning rage which makes the dying man stutter a weak cough.

Harel runs to the pair, her blood cold with horror as she watches Torrie move his broken hand towards the dagger, a gurgle snapping Josephine from her haze. Her eyes are wide and reddened, her expression frozen in grief and terror. 

A tawny hand grips the handle as she bends her head to lay a kiss to his cheek, her forehead tilting into his face as she begins to sob again. 

And the blade raises as she raises herself, her hand shaking as Torrie fights to breathe, the pain distorting his senses. 

The first spray of blood hits Josephine across her lap, a weak spurt of a dying man’s blood pressure. His throat cut open, his breath slowing until he sighs once and never inhales again. 

The Qunari elf moves quickly, almost collapsing to her knees to hold Josephine but she’s gone before she can even get close to her. 

Harel finds herself in an ostentatious courtyard which separates the all-male from all-female schools. She hears wailing and moves towards the sounds to see an older woman gripping Josephine tightly as a man, stone-faced from the loss of his son, walks towards them holding a box.

Grey eyes lose their incessant glitter, dulled from the days of grief, her expression blank and receding as she’s tossed around in Lady Amatore’s lamenting embrace. The man puts the box down on a bench, respectful of his son’s personal effects and joins the women, pulling them into a hug, understanding that all three of them had suffered a profound loss even though secretly, one of them was the cause for their agony. 

Stepping forward, Harel moves with the dream, shifting into the next, as she sees Josephine in her classroom once again, her expression unreadable, her attention fully directed to the lesson. There was no quill tapping or consideration given to the wads of paper thrown at her. 

The only time she snapped from her academia induced trance was to slowly reach a hand up to touch the chain around her neck, her eyes shining with tears for a moment before blinking, dismissing the emotion as if it never existed. One could never tell by looking, that Josephine was mired and near-consumed by grief and regret. 

And so, a master of The Game was born and therein, a diplomat who vowed never to encourage violence again.

The horned elf had heard the story before, but so many details were left out and understandably so. The level of pain in the Antivan’s voice the day she confessed far outweighed the words she spoke.

_"It was a mild-weathered day when I saw it, his parents coming to my school to collect..." she gulps down her emotions which threatened to burst, " to collect his belongings..."_

Focusing her mind, Harel reached her hand towards Josephine, forcing the dream to stay stagnant, forcing her power as a Somniari to alter the Fade around them.

A grey palm-covered a brown one, holding onto the hand before squeezing her fingers to latch between the spaces. Within the classroom, the noises died down, the lecture hall was silent as all students slowly faded from their seats till there was no one left but the two of them. Green eyes looked at Josephine, the current version now, dressed in her Inquisition attire, as she began to cry.

_“I killed him,”_ she choked through her heaving, _“My Torrie. I killed him like an_ ** _animal._ ** _”_

Releasing her grip, Harel brought her arm around Josephine’s shoulders, nuzzling her hair, laying kisses on whatever skin she could find as the diplomat broke down in a vicious spate of wailing. The lecture hall swam in the presence of such grief as little tears formed in the walls, long, bony hands of Despair tried to claw their way through.

The Void was encroaching on them, brought in by the sudden onslaught of the diplomat's uncontrolled emotions. Harel continued consoling the Antivan as best as she could, remaining in the space despite the decay of the Fade around them. 

A soft green glow enveloped the two and like the connection forged between an Ashkaari and a lone wolf so long ago, another bond was tied.

_“I’m sorry, vhenan.”_ Harel whispered to the grief-stricken woman, _“I’m so sorry you lost him…”_ she pulls the woman closer to try and ward off the sound of Despair screaming from the walls, _“I can’t imagine a loss like this but I want to help you in whatever way I can...I just want you to be happy because...”_

The world around them swallows itself into the inky black void as the eyes of a giant spider glow red in the distance.

_“Because I love you, Josie.”_ Harel says, tilting the diplomat’s head from her chest until she brings Josephine into a kiss, her hands cradling the Antivan’s face as the Anchor pulses with light.

The Fade becomes awash with a gentle green light like lanterns on the Promenade in the blackest of nights, a beacon to guide people to safety and to remind them that there is no such thing as pure darkness.

They are tethered, the Wolf and the Peacekeeper, even as something from within the recesses of the Fade shows its frustration at the damnable thwarting.

But even the most beautiful of moments can be sullied, as from within the protective green glow was a gap that allowed something devious to worm its way through, unseen and unheard and thoroughly wicked.

* * *

Ever since she moved with the Valo-Kas, Harel had lost the feeling of constantly being watched. The phobia, however, still remained. 

Fluttering eyelashes signalled her awakening as the horned elf blinked to clear her vision before she realized that she was being stared at just a few inches away. 

Jerking herself upwards, Harel gave a yelp as Josephine calmed her, rising with the Qunari, apologizing profusely for her odd behaviour. Before she could comment further, however, the diplomat felt a chill in the air before realizing the only thing either of them wore was a sheet.

A sheet which pooled at both of their hips, exposing them to the mountain air filtering into the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

Tawny hands shot up to cover her chest, ripping a snorting laugh from Harel who didn’t care one bit about her own nakedness. Growing up in a communal setting would do that to you. 

Picking up her end of the sheets, Harel draped the cloth around Josephine, tucking the fabric tightly around her before drawing her into a hug. The Antivan melted into the embrace despite having no use of her arms; resting her head on a grey shoulder, breathing in the scent of Arbor Blessing and Elfroot.

“I thought I lost you, Harel,” came a mumble which vibrated against the Inquisitor’s skin, “I thought I lost you as I lost...Torrie,” tears began falling again, running down Harel’s back as well as pooling in her collarbone, “I couldn’t...not again...I-”

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Harel said as she squeezed her paramour tighter, “I was there, I felt what you felt even though I can **never** actually understand how terrible your pain is,” she nuzzles back into black hair, “I...I’m just sorry.”

The diplomat wriggles in Harel’s grip, prompting her release; the sheet opening slightly now that her arms were less restrained. Without the kohl, the makeup, the immaculate hairstyle and indomitable amicability, Josephine looked...small. Her expression was worn both physically and mentally, dark circles and exhausted eyes that looked akin to the expression she saw in the dream. 

Framed by wavy hair, was a face that didn’t know the touch of The Game; the mask she wore dissipating in the wind. 

At that moment, she wasn’t the Ambassador to the Inquisition, head of House Montilyet. 

At that moment, she was just Josephine, a young woman who suffered neurotic tendencies, brief moments of unbridled rage and joy, and the extreme and near-crippling loss of a loved one.

“Kadan,” Harel said slowly, trying to get the Antivan to look at her, a grey hand pushing curls of black hair over her ear, “I love you.”  
  
They both knew the words that flew out of the Inquisitor's mouth, they both heard it with clarity as the Anchor gave a small flare.

But Josephine looked up into the Qunari’s hopeful eyes, her expression tender but firm.

“Please give me time, Harel,” she spoke quietly, “I…”

The Qunari nodded her head immediately, all too willing to give her partner space, even as her heart broke from the expression she saw, from the dismissal she heard. 

Even as creeping nausea and ice spiralled up her body, wondering if Josephine would ever be able to love her after such a tragedy.

Wondering if she even had a chance in such a fervent, fledgeling relationship brought on by her rushed and bludgeoning confession. 

And in the cold ashes of the fireplace, where the illusion of a wolf's head once burned in its flames, another horror waited to take its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yall already Know ill say thanks for reading  
> So yea that was fun.
> 
> Idk i just like adding as much backstory to characters as i can, especially the lovely lady josie. 
> 
> Eustorgio is pronounced Yew-Store-Gee-Oh. It means Content or Good. 
> 
> I'll be back soon once 2020 stops destroying my juicy ass


	19. To Overcome Pain, One Must Remember Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fade will call to you,  
> From the seething bowels, they will sing.  
> Demons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,  
> On blacken'd wings does terror bleed into light,  
> The sweetest of His children, twisting in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary is from the Canticle of Silence; a fucked around redone version i altered just a lil  
> Hoe hoe hoe, I hope yall are homo for the homodays.  
> Either way, i hope you all enjoy this angsty chapter and like, have fun, drink lots of eggnog etc.
> 
> I'll see you all soon :)
> 
> The song I listened to:  
> [Tamino-Cigar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi-xgdKIIxo)  
> I dunno but it just KINDA FITS YAKNOW

What was triumph exactly? Was it the way Harel’s companions rushed to her side in the Main Hall, peeling laughter and applause, breaking down into joyous sobs? Was it the residents of Skyhold shouting enraptured welcomes to their once infirm Inquisitor? Maybe it was the way the world around the horned elf stabbed her with sharpened clarity; every breath sweeter, every colour, brighter now that she didn’t have a Demon stuck to her. Maybe it was the punch to her gut Sera swung before pulling her into a near crushing embrace.

Maybe it was the fact she was whole, well and truly whole, after months of slowly wasting away into a husk; a triumph after days -yes, days- of being sequestered and kept hidden so that no one may see the Tranquil mage, so that no one may know the truth.

Even so, as Varric vowed to write her into a chapter of Hard in Hightown and Bull swept her into a bridal carry, Harel felt…

The companions tossed her around while she lay in Bull’s arms. Vivienne grabbed the horned mage’s chin to hold her cheek steady for a kiss. Blackwall clapped her shoulder, shaking the Qunari as he laughed a chuckle normally so rare to hear. 

Even her Advisors, often kept to their own spaces, congregated to witness this revival. 

Green eyes scanned the crowd of adoring people, much like in a dream conjured up the night before by a suffering Antivan.

She looked for Josephine in the gathering of people, all of whom adored her, and saw everyone but the person she wanted to witness the most. 

The victory felt pyrrhic. 

* * *

The cheering was not subtle. It could be heard everywhere and anywhere. From the bowels of the prisons to the apex of Skyhold. WIthin that gilded cage perched above the Keep, was one person who wasn’t ready to go downstairs. Normally her day began with the dawn.

But things these days were far from normal.

Josephine sat by the newly kindled fire- _Kadan,_ Harel had told her, _I’ll be right back_ , kissing her with as much love as she could impart- and watched the flames. She huddled near the warmth, feeling her bones chilled to the core despite every balcony door being closed. 

Her eyes constantly closed, only to flutter back open. 

Ever since the Tranquility, ever since last night, her sleep had been poor at best, non-existent at worst.

But there was something more than the compressing weight of exhaustion.

It was the opening of a wound, long closed, long cauterized, long-buried.

Wearing nothing but the sheet, Josephine brought the cloth around her tighter before laying herself down in front of the flames, her body curled up, like once upon a time in Skyhold’s garden, like last night before Harel returned. 

There were tears coming from her eyes, soaking into the rug yet no expression on her face as if the very act sapped her of all emotion. 

And in the flames, a wolf’s head burned for only a moment before it was gone. 

* * *

There would be a terrible bruise left. She should have known something like this would happen. There was no one but the two of them there after all.

Harel had made it as far as the Rookery missive table before she was attacked by a Nightingale bearing the vengeance of Andraste. Leliana rushed forward, balling up the Inquisitor’s coat in her hand before tensing the other, throwing a punch so vicious that it sent the Qunari flying before she could react.

And still, she couldn’t react quite fast enough as the Spymistress stomped her way forward, her boots straddling the Inquisitor’s form as grey fingers carefully rubbed her stricken face. 

If Leliana wanted to stamp on the elf’s fallen form, she could have very easily done so. 

Instead, eyes as green as the Fade looked up at the shadow looming above her realising that this was no shadow.

A drop of water fell.

This was a raincloud. 

Kneeling, Harel could see the Spymaster struggle to keep her emotions in check; her expression flitting between enraged, relieved and worried. Thin tracks of tears made its way down the Bard’s ghostly pale face; resembling a spectre whose purpose was to haunt without remorse. 

“Solas tells us that it was a Spirit of Love that reversed the Rite,” the Orlesian Bard spits out, “And while we have you back, my mind can only dwell on the days you were not here,” a gloved hand moves to squeeze the Inquisitor’s face in an iron grip, “It was not your fault, but I cannot help but _hate_ the trauma you have given our Ambassador.”

The Qunari flinches at the rough treatment, fingers digging into the blossoming bruise. At first, there was fear in Harel’s eyes but her mind was weary, throwing aside all her prior quirks. In her heart burned an unquenchable flame, different from the slick sheets of frost that would coat her skin. Fury blazed inside of her, brought on by many things; a dismissed confession of love, a troubled relationship, a worry that the Fade will remain a dangerous place for her.

Leliana’s liberties with her docile nature was the last straw as that vitriol bubbled within her, finally releasing after months of being accosted by the Bard.

“You could blame the Nightmare demon,” Harel says carefully, her tone wary but offended, “You could blame the bad shit that’s been attacking us, the fucking Magister that keeps fucking us over,” there’s outrage building in the mage’s voice as she grits her teeth, her hand flying upwards to grasp the Orlesian’s wrist, “How fucking **dare** you blame me?! I’ve done nothing but try to help her -to love her- but everything I do is **never** enough, in fact, **what the fuck** do **_you_ ** have to do with any this?! You’re not her **fucking** mother!”

Harel yanks Leliana’s hand off her as she pushes herself off the ground, drawing up her full height that spans far above the Bard.

“I want you to keep your **fucking** nose out of our business,” the Qunari growls, “I don’t even know why I even bothered to live up to **your** expectations.”

There are no words.

There’s a brief flash of pure hate in the Orlesian’s eyes before the fire cools. Blinking away the tears, she nods her head, turning on her heel to move towards her altar. 

Harel storms off, her blood boiling, her skin heating up as if a fire would kindle on her coat. Her eyes are stony, vicious and angry, her body rigid from the small spat.

Normally, Josephine would tell both of them to be more understanding; chiding them both for their reactions but it was hard to hear those words when there was no one to speak them.

She would have prevented a fight and if a fight had already occurred?

She would have graciously fixed this tear between the two.

Harel felt a dramatic thought seep into her brain, unable to stop it as she tried to run past the library so no one would see her almost weep. 

_Without Josie, the Inquisition will crumble._

* * *

Dutifully so, Leliana ensured an aide took over for Josephine and though he lacked her talent and grace, he made up for it in executive function. 

Everyone required the attention of the diplomat and the Inquisitor but they were all given notice; gifted small parcels of apology and sidestepped gently.

It was no brilliant tactic, but for now, it would do as the two needed time.

She had promised to return and once she did, the horned elf felt her heart break twice, once reminded of the ignored confession, the other at the sight before her. 

Moving towards the fireplace, Harel removed her coat and any abrasive materials before laying herself against a bare, tanned back, slipping her arms around the Antivan and pressing her nose against her neck. She fussed with the sheet to ensure it properly covered Josephine, but tawny hands held the bundle of cloth closely to her chest, refusing to let go.

Giving up her attempt to move the sheet, Harel began mumbling reassurances in Qunlat into her skin, trying to brush away the tears that just kept coming. A grey hand laced fingers in brown ones but Josephine uncoupled their hands, instead brushing her palm against the fibres of the rug. 

Memories were painful. 

Memories of Haven, of Orlais, of people lost, of people, loved, of various little things that turn into large thoughts that cloud the mind.

If she were Cole, Harel was sure she’d feel the stinging, scraping, saddening lacerations in Josie’s soul. In a way, she did, just by seeing her stare at the fire, her eyes devoid of all emotion.

Different from a mask, but wholly the same. 

Feeling the sheets move, Harel released her grip on the Ambassador, tilting her body back as Josephine rolled to face Harel. 

There was a sharpness to her gaze that cut through the mage; a razor’s edge that she wasn’t able to read before she was devoured.

Teeth caught grey lips as Harel felt herself kissed passionately- no- ferociously, her head pulled in by small, bronze hands, her body now crushed against a barely clothed one. 

Nails dig into her face before the teeth move to her neck, taking the flesh near her scarred throat and biting it hard enough to almost bleed.

Harel gasps before sucking in a breath at the vicious marking. 

The hands move down the mage’s body, digging nails deeply into the fabric of Harel’s shirt before one latches on to the Inquisitor’s hand, guiding it down between her legs. 

Harel was accustomed to tenderness, to the sweetness of their first night. To the soft cuddles and gentle blushes. To the featherlight, almost breathless sighs of _amore_ and _tesoro_.

This however, was raw, carnal, angry.

As Harel plunged her fingers in, her skin bruised in several places, she felt that gentleness dissipate, willing to do as her lover commanded but worried, terribly worried by this shift in behaviour.

Josephine arched into her touch, her nails digging into the Qunari’s wrist as she held her hand there. Her other hand held the elf’s horn still, her grip squeezing hard enough to make Harel’s head bend upwards.

She quickened her pace, trying to coax some form of sweet moaning sighs but all she was met with was breathless panting; using a feeling to escape herself.

Using Harel to escape herself. 

And rigidity set in as the diplomat met her release, her hands relaxing, her body uncoiling, her eyes softening if only for a moment before they became like steel; grey tempered hard and cold. 

Like in the dream where a young Antivan was being swung back and forth by a grieving Lady Amatore.

Harel brought herself forward, pressing her nose into frizzy black hair as she heard the panting lessen in quickness.

“I’m sorry,” The Qunari said quietly.

There was a pause as the diplomat took in the words, processing the emotion behind it, the rest of the sentence unspoken, _I’m sorry about Torrie._

“So am I,” Josephine replied before rolling over to look back into the flames.

It had been a while since Harel felt so alone but never as profoundly as now.

* * *

Everyone had taken the news somewhat well despite having to first rush into, then cram themselves into the War Room.

A Spirit of Love -Sera refused to listen at this point- had saved the Inquisitor. 

So said so done.

Though some of the companions had their reservations about a _Demon_ invading their leader, Cassandra and Solas took it upon themselves to explain the harmless nature and benefits of such a rescue.

Cassandra’s explanation was utilitarian, comparing her Vigil to this, listing her power, her pains, her acceptance and her views thereof. 

_“She is no more a Demon than I”_ , the Seeker had finished with, as if to assuage those who didn’t believe there were good Spirits; a sentence directed to Bull and Vivienne who took the words with blank expressions. 

Solas on the other hand, was a storyteller. His thoughts and ideas like ink on a page under an author's pen, which drew Leliana’s gaze for a small moment before it died down into her normal bemused stare. Each member of the inner circle had gathered as best as they could into the War Room to listen to these descriptions, each laden with pros and cons, each envisioning benefit and loss.

Varric had questions, the thought of a blonde Warden coming to mind, the pain pressing heavily on him as he remembered Anders whenever he looked to an icon of Andraste. He wanted to know, to be _assured_ that this was no cohabitation. 

The dwarf thinks of Justice and Anders. His face is tense as he hopes _not again, Maker please, not again._

Solas paces in front of the rogue, hands behind his back, cutting a path through the gathering. The apostate may know a great deal on the Fade, but he didn’t know everything; words that he chose to keep to himself as Varric looked mired, weighed down, traumatized.

  
“Blondi-” Cole barely speaks.

“Kid, no,” Varric says, his hand raised to stop the flood of thoughts escaping the Spirit boy’s mouth, “Not now, please.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cole tries to reason, his voice quivering, but Blackwall grabs the boy’s shoulder to stop him from continuing, his grizzled head shaking slowly, a gentle reprimand to stop his speech.

Picking up where he left off, Solas attempts to assuage the dwarf. It was to be seen less as a worry but as a blessing for a Spirit so pure to have chosen the Inquisitor. Though Solas had his reservations on whether this was a cohabitation or not, he dared not speak it. For now, the Inquisitor was back, fit and hale, her usual behaviour unblemished. 

Harel had returned by the grace of a Spirit much like a grieving Nevarran who took a knee in her Vigil, becoming nothing and then, everything. 

The bald elf wondered what skills the Qunari may have gained from this Spirit’s presence. Was there anything more to be gained in a magic style so unique?

He filed the thought away for later as he watched each companion react to the last answered question.

The Andrastians in the room began believing, in the back of their minds, that the Herald was legitimately and truly guided by the Maker despite the debacle at Adamant proving otherwise.

The unbelievers saw luck, greater and grander luck than any had the right to hold, placed in the palm of the plucky Qunari elf.

Both sides saw a person, once again scraping their way from the bowels of impossibility.

There was minor dissent to the wary and cautious of the companions but that was soon swept away. All who knew her feared both the end of the world and the loss of a friend. They were just glad, regardless of how, that the mage was back even though she didn’t stand with them for the meeting. Vivienne looked minutely displeased but it was something Harel would have to work on, to prove once again, that she was no savage.

That she was no monster.

No one saw the Spymaster close her eyes as Blackwall patted Sera’s back too hard or Dorian quietly brushed hands with Bull.

No one saw Leliana sigh as she thought about the coldness in Josephine’s eyes the day after Harel was Tranquil or the sting of rage and reflection at the fight in the Rookery.

There was a worry in her heart that they won the battle but lost the war.

That whatever happened was only the beginning and the tightening anxiety in her stomach only served to encourage that way of thought.

“We can try,” came a voice from behind the Spymaster, “ _We must keep hope that everything will turn out for the best,”_ Cole lays bare what floated inside Leliana’s mind, a reassurance so that she doesn’t lose herself.

“Thank you, Cole,” The Nightingale says with a smile, the first in a long time, her calmed expression turning to one of inquiry, “How are they faring?”

The companions begin to shuffle out the room, Cullen looks to Leliana but removes his gaze once he realizes she’s busy. He sees Cole, for once, as the boy is made physical, engaged in conversation, forced to remain.

Cullen tails behind Sera who pestered Bull for Chasind mead, all too willing to give the pair their privacy.

“The coin spins, one half looks towards the other and sees nothing,” he mumbles, his blue eyes staring into the door as he paces the War Table.

He’s vague, speaking in riddles even as he tries to clarify his meaning. 

The Orlesian means to ask another question but Cole flinches as he feels a phantom pain dig into him. Something happens in the Inquisitor's quarters where two young lovers experienced a blade’s edge of emotion. It hurts him, more than he can bear even as they themselves hurt far more in tandem.

Before she can react, before she can speak, he’s gone as if he was never there.

The only difference being that she remembers him, the Spirit that gifted her dead bees and poorly drawn roses; a memento of who she was given metaphor and physicality.

In silence, the Left-Hand moves towards the War Table, her eyes roaming the Arbor Wilds, thinking of the next task to be done, waiting till they had the power to do so, her mind stuck in the future as if to spare her the pain of the present.

* * *

Their reputation was still stellar as if nothing happened, as if every day went on as normal despite the day’s absence of the Ambassador. Josephine was back to her post, her quill endlessly writing some letter, some missive. 

Harel often came to check on her, her expression worried, constantly asking what she could do to help. It was sweet, really, the concern. On a normal day, Josephine would have been overjoyed at such attention, blushing furiously at the blatant show of care.

These days, however, whenever the Inquisitor came in, she felt herself retreat, every word the mage spoke twisted her throat into knots and her body felt cold. She felt cold very often, almost wishing her desk was closer to the fire. 

The elf would be met with a practised smile, a dismissal, her expression a facsimile of what the Qunari was expecting to see. The horned elf was far more perceptive though, always asking once again if she needed anything.

Her quill almost broke in her hand after one of these sessions. She was irate, emboldened and blemished.

That’s how she felt at least.

Harel would nod, slinking out the door before shutting the wood quietly. 

Once the footsteps were gone, Josephine would discard her writing implements to bury her face in her hands, once again in tears, once again confused and depressed as to why she was crying.

She knew the reason, but why now, after so long, after so much effort to bottle it up.

Why now?

And why so strongly, as if her emotions were amplified tenfold.

Or just not there at all.

* * *

“You worry me,” Leliana says from the darkness of the office door.

Josephine continued writing, her quill gripped tighter in her fist.

“Josie,” Leliana pleads, “put down the pen and talk to me, not as a colleague but as a friend,”

The quill scratches harder into the parchment.

“Josie-”

An inkwell shatters against the wall near to the Spymaster’s head; had her nerves been much frailer, Leliana would have jumped at the attack.

Her arm still outstretched, fingers curling, her eyes like stones as the fireplace matches her mood, growing with the provocation.

A black puddle forms while glass becomes dyed in the mess.

Tears dirty the parchment as the Mistress rushes forward before Josephine can collapse, grabbing up golden silk in an instant, pulling the Ambassador closer to her chest, rubbing comforting circles up and down her back as the red-haired bard hears the barest whisper of a sentence.

**“What is happening to me, Leli?”**

* * *

“Does it squiggle?”

Sera often asked many weird questions, but this one had to be the weirdest.

“Yaknow, like wriggle n shite up inside your gut?” came the Red Jenny again as she fiddled with her misshapen bangs. 

“What in Sylaise’s scalding nipples are you talking about?” the Qunari said as the group continued walking.

Within the Hinterlands, in a Quarry-like ravine named for Lady Shayna were four people forging forward from their camp. Harel’s mood had been soured despite the great victory against the Nightmare demon, her troubles with Josephine laying heavy in her mind. 

And so she gathered her team for a death long coming.

Her dragon-slaying team, Bull, Cassandra and Sera, each with their own skills, each with a passion for dragon hunting burning in their souls. 

“The thingy,” Sera says again, hopping over a cubed stone, “The thingy that did the whole ‘no more dead eyes’ thing.”

“The...Spirit?” Harel inquired.

Clapping her hands over her ears, Sera began shouting, “DON’T BLOODY SAY THAT! MAKES ME THINK THINGS, JUST FUCKIN TELL ME IF IT WRIGGLES OR NOT!”

Harel sighs before, looking towards the Seeker who regarded the loud elf with a thin-lipped stare.

“Ask Cassandra, she pretty much had the same thing happen to her,” The horned woman said with a grin, much to the upset of the Right Hand, “So Cass, **does** it wriggle?”

A well meaning grunt, a disgusted noise heralded a laugh from all in attendance. 

Exiting the quarry, they came across a semi-marsh land with squared mountains; a valley full of dragonlings. 

And she made her presence known, the beautiful lady, with yellow-green scales soaking up the sun as she flew over, her wings stretched out showing the tapestry of veins against the canvas of her thin skin.

She could hear Bull say it, under the deafening shriek of her roar.

  
_Ataashi._

Even Cassandra, so stoic at all times, looked stunned, having fought dragons before but each time looking as if every encounter were her first.

And Sera?

Well, Sera began screaming back at the yellow reptile, as if some primal urge tore through her body, as if she wanted, no _needed_ the dragon to know she existed. 

To let something so thoroughly dangerous knew that she was alive and that she would have its head. 

Harel gave the signal, four fingers pointing forward as a dragonling noticed them, hunger in its black eyes, its teeth bared.

Bull charged, bringing down his cleaver, severing its spine, lopping off its head in one clean motion.

To Harel’s side, the rustling of leaves could be heard before something pounced, only to have its eyes punctured by two arrows; Sera’s bowstring vibrating from the shots. 

The Dragonling stumbled blindly before it was yanked forward by a chain, dragging the beast directly into Cassandra’s sword. The creature twitched as the Seeker slid the dying reptile off her blade, letting it drop with a dull thud on the grass.

Another deafening howl pierced the sky while the dragon flew overhead once more, this time, spraying a line of fire which forced each companion to duck. The ground seared in front of them, smoking from the blaze, each rock hot enough to melt flesh.

“DID YOU SEE THAT BOSS!!!” Bull bellowed from his prone position, his face elated beyond compare, “DID YOU SEE HER?! FUCK SHE’S **GORGEOUS**!!!”

“She nearly burned us to ashes, Iron Bull,” The Seeker retorted as she pushed herself back up, “Focus!”

Harel sees Bull roll his eyes before moving his large frame, never once losing the enthralled expression which matched Sera’s perfectly.

The Qunari elf, though mired in her own thoughts, couldn't help but grin from the power of the beautiful lady flying overhead.

The threat of death, the sight of raw bestial strength was almost enough to stamp down the pain; the possibility of a one-sided relationship. Leliana had warned her Josephine was innocent in love, to not toy with her emotions.

A Fade Step forward, coating her body in mana-laden frost to cool her thoughts, helped her ignore the hurt as her companions rushed to keep up, kicking up puddles as they ran. 

How could she take those words seriously, when she felt like the one being toyed with?

* * *

The Maker’s Wrath had visited the Hinterlands. All it took was a spray of blood to fly in the wrong place.

They were on top of a rocky hill, the dragon’s last stand as she bled from every limb, her face, a smattering of gore and torn scales. Sera climbed up a rockface, using the angle to rain down as many arrows as she owned. Bull was a whirlwind, swinging his cleaver in full circles, each spin getting faster, each hit, cutting deeper. Cassandra offered support to Bull, using her shield to deflect fire, her blade, an unseen blur of attacks as if the Pentaghast blood reacted to the dragon, as if her ancestors held her pommel, enforcing each swing.

But Ferelden Frostbacks were mean, near-invincible creatures, especially when near death. The Reaver met his match as the dragon lifted her paw, batting the Tal-Vashoth away with a heavy swipe. 

An arrow, minuscule compared to the beast, found itself wedged in the dragon’s eye. 

Roaring, louder and sharper than any of the previous screeches, paralyzed the archer, her legs and arms frozen as the dragon raised her talons at the menace.

Cassandra looked to Harel, breathing heavily, her face sweaty and bloody as a nod signalled an understanding.

You get the Sera, I’ll get Bull. 

Within an instant, the mage sped off as the beast attempted to raise its injured paw higher, the time taken would have been enough for Sera to bounce away, if she wasn’t frozen in fear, frozen by the cry.

Her eyes were wide as her arms lost tensity, plaideweave legs trembling, her bow dropping from its place on the cliff, clattering down the stones into the jaws of a Dragonling. Either she dies, skewered on a talon or ripped apart by hungry dragon babies.

Harel Fade Steps up the cliff, watching as the dragon’s wounded arm tears from the strain, the sinews clearly seen from the gaping hole Bull left.

Harel digs her fingers into the cubed rocks, fingernails almost splitting from the pressure as she fights to pull herself up faster. She feels as if she won’t make it in time, that she’ll have to witness more death.

_First Ellana, now Sera._

The thought hastens her movements as she scrambles up.

Then a spurt of blood erupts from the dragon’s arm, a vein broke under the motion, drenching the Qunari elf.

It drips down her hair, dying the strands crimson as she tries to spit out a glob of blood. She tastes the hot, living liquid as it worms its way down her throat without her swallowing, burning a path through her chest as her body shakes. She feels the fire crawl up her skin, energy unlike any other bolstering her movements. 

Like an animal, her legs dig into the stone, her arms tensing as she leaps upwards, clearing several inches of cliffside before landing next to the Red Jenny.

Sera is in her arms, the elf is forcibly bent low into the ground by a bloodsoaked grey hand so as to protect her. 

Not from the dragon but from Harel.

She feels the fire bubble inside of her, carving through her organs, but a thought crests her mind, a stinging thought that keeps revolving in her head.

_Please give me time, Harel._

What was once flame erupts into frost, tunnelling out the mage’s mouth as if she herself were a dragon, her eyes glowing a bright emerald green as the Anchor flares brightly, the green veins growing, coiling its way up till it’s halfway up her forearm. Colder than any snow, chilling enough to cause frostbite within the second.

The beast tries to move away from the blizzard but its body hardens, crunching glacial layers as it stops completely.

It was not possible to tell if the dragon was dead but all members of the team looked at the statue in front of them, a Ferelden Frostback up on its hind legs, its arm outstretched as if to attack. Yellow scales have been hidden by Fade-borne ice making the Frostback more akin to a Hivernal dragon. 

Frozen in time.

Though crouched, Sera couldn’t support herself anymore, falling completely flat on the ground, her ears ringing but not loudly enough to drown out the ragged breathing of the woman beside her.

Harel stood on open legs, arms curled and far from her side, her teeth bared as the pinkish remnants of blood-stained her teeth. Her pupils dilated, hiding the sweet green of her eyes. She looked to Sera from over her shoulder, cold water running down her chin as her head twitched slightly.

Shaking hands moved towards the city elf, trembling not from exhaustion or fear, but in control so as not to accidentally break Sera’s bones from this newfound power.

The Red Jenny was immobile, even when she heard Bull hail the two of them. She couldn’t breathe nor speak as Harel ensured she was carefully placed on her shoulder.

She felt a tangle of ropes weave around her, noticing its green ethereal glow, she wanted to scream. 

_“Fucking magic fucking fuck”_ was all the elf could think as she couldn’t speak. 

It was to keep Sera safe, to fasten her to her body as they moved, but she couldn’t, she just couldn't, she just **couldn’t** trust magic.

Arms outstretched the Qunari lept from the cliff as tendrils of flame followed her jump. 

Sera could see it, the line of fire stretching from one grey hand to the other and had no power but to watch as the strand of flame caught on the dragon’s frozen neck and pulled its way through, cutting and cauterizing, ensuring no blood spilt.

No barrier spared the mage’s feet for she felt the dragon’s blood gift her an absurd amount of vitality.

Her hands clapped together, dispelling the fire as the Frostback’s frozen head fell to the ground with a near earth-trembling thud. The green ropes uncoiled from Sera who, feeling better, began wriggling from the freedom. 

Before Harel or any of the team could remove her, Sera leapt off the Inquisitor, moving back, eyes wide.

Cassandra made motions to treat the elf but Harel stopped her. The city elf sat shaking on the ground; never accustomed to magic, never giving it a chance, she will **never** accept it. Especially when it was so close, holding onto her like it was **real**.

Though she looked half-mad, still brimming with the power of dragons, Harel kneeled and attempted to soften her expression even though all she wanted to do was snarl at everything.

Slowly, she reached a hand to her belt, withdrawing a potion before offering it to Sera.

“Just in case.” Harel reassured her with a smile, “Can’t…” the Qunari exhaled to try and control herself, “Can’t have my best archer injured.”

With shaking hands, the Jenny snatched away the potion; Cassandra was confused, if not a mite frustrated at the elf’s sudden withdrawal. The Qunari and elf were close friends as their interests aligned; to see such a frightful reaction was alarming.

Bull, however, understood, his mind drifting to his Tamassran, her hand on his head after a nightmare about Demons. He understood more than anyone how fear can change perspective.

“Y-you’re not…” Sera stuttered as she uncorked the bottle, “gonna heal me with-”

Harel shook her head, a closed smile on her lips so as not to display her bloodstained teeth.

The Blood Cliffs were oddly quiet, peaceful nearly. A wind blew through the land as if singing that the screeching monster that plagued the hills were dead. 

Straightening herself back up, Harel cast a shadow over Sera as she waited for the elf to finish the potion. Her hand was outstretched to help the elf up, a ruddy palm grabbed a grey one.

The team walked back, keeping their eyes peeled for Dragonlings; reptiles that won’t resurface after the death of their mother. They would alert the Dusklight camp of their triumph and bring the pieces back to Skyhold.

Bull chattered endlessly about the beauty they killed, the dragon blood high, the way Harel just **_breathed fucking ice and fucking WOW WHAT THE FUCK_** as she nodded in agreement with every point. All the while, Harel walked in front of the group with Sera near the back, looking at the Qunari elf, staring at her with an unreadable expression. 

The reds and blacks of Harel’s armour painted sharp lines on the mage yet nothing about her was prickly. 

The kindness was subtle; giving her a potion instead of healing magic, ensuring Sera was safe even when she was on a rampage. 

Assuaging her fears when she could have easily done nothing. 

Quickening her pace as they walked across the open quarry, Sera jogged to match the Inquisitor's pace, her eyes brighter as she shoved the mage with her shoulder. 

“You owe me for that bow, Elfy,” Sera chortled.

“Last I checked, you’re the one who dropped your own fuckin’ bow,” Harel retorted as she playfully shoved the city elf.

They continued this back and forth even as Cassandra’s expression tightened before releasing into an exasperated breath. Those two were back on a roll now and nothing could stop them.

Not even the bad thoughts in Sera’s head, reminding her of the dangers of magic, that magic was real, that it was uncontrolled, that there was a thing inside of Elfy that gave her back.

All the bad thoughts were pushed aside every time the Qunari spoke.

They just killed a fucking dragon; this was no time for whinging.

* * *

Josephine no longer kept the fires burning. She stopped taking her chilled body into account and chose to ignore the near-freezing air in the Keep. As a child of Antiva, she was sensitive to the cold and yet, she found herself working by candlelight in the pitch darkness of her office.

The wind rattled on the windows but her mind lay elsewhere; buried in her work, buried so that she wouldn’t have to resurface. Harel had come at a few points in time to get her but each time she was declined. Each time, a promise to leave was made, each time, broken. 

The creaking made her shoulders jump, a drop of ink ruining the budget sheet she was mapping out. It was hard to see the entirety of the office in such blackness but she was certain of the sound. 

A door creaking open.

Skyhold was a very safe habitation, there were guards everywhere.

Straightening herself to look past the shadows, Josephine wondered if there was some assassin lurking. Slowly, she pulled a key from her pouch, her eyes only flitting to the locked drawer of her desk when necessary, pulling open the cabinet with care,

Atop leather and silks, was a dagger, still sharp, still clean even after it took the life of a young Antivan Bard so long ago. Josephine gripped the handle, a shock running through her as she recalled the last time she held it, before she scooted out of her chair with both knife and candle in hand. 

She was not a violent person, but she was afraid.

Stalking the shadows, Josephine tried to summon her past, her flimsy skills as a Bard to blend into the night, to try and not be seen despite the noisy nature of her uniform. 

Approaching the door, she moved the candle around, her body constantly jumping from shadows that made themselves look like monsters. Her thoughts briefly went to Haven as her senses were flooded with the visions of fire, the scent of blood, the sounds of screaming.

Normally the nightmares came as she slept, but she felt as if they would come while she woke. The fears were powerful, brought on by the shifting of the room.

But more pressing matters required her attention; another creak and the sound of footsteps, light almost unheard but definite in its presence. 

Curling fingers around the door handle, she slowly brought it towards her, the knife back in position to intimidate -yes, she would not draw blood today she desperately hoped- as she walked forward.

Her eyes glanced at the archway steps leading to the kitchen. 

The candle’s flame moved, as she tilted the wax towards the stairs. 

There was a glint in the stygian blackness which could have been confused for moonlight but there were no windows down there.

Josephine held the candle higher and closer to the stairs as if to see what caught her eye, the knife handle tightening in her grip.

His hand pulls him up the steps, then he rises, his body a mashed, deformed, writhing form of ashen skin and compound fractures. His neck lolling from the broken bones, his mouth straining breaths and leaking blood. 

His mask is off, his eyes frozen in a haunting stare that mirrors his death.

Torrie ascends the stairs, appearing from the cloth of darkness to hobble his way towards his murderess.

There is a scream as Josephine drops the candle, the knife in her hands tensing as the world around her spins, becoming darker even though it was dim from the beginning.

* * *

There’s a hand stroking her arm with careful, gentle swipes. Josephine feels sheets above her and the soft, pliant material of the mattress below her. Even so, her body awakens on edge, terrified and paranoiac. Her arms fly towards whatever is near her, fists curled tightly as she beats the figure in her frenzy. 

Then her arms are stilled by the gentle hands, Harel looks at Josephine with wide green eyes, one of which has been bruised by the blows.

“The guards found you by the vault stairs,” the Qunari spoke as she lessened her grip, “I asked them to keep an eye on you but I didn’t think anything would…” the bruised eye begins to shine with tears, “I should have brought you up sooner…”

With her wrists still encircled, the Antivan brings her hands to caress Harel’s face, a weathered, worried look that seems all too familiar; an expression she herself once wore.

And she remembers the time the mage tumbled down the steps, she remembers when they sipped on Seheron tea, when they discussed the terrors of madness with nothing but support lent to her paramour. 

Selfish.

Josephine has been selfish and cruel. 

There are tears to back up the Antivan’s feelings, all of a sudden catching her off guard, the first emotion borne of the mage’s love for her since the Tranquility was cured.

There is no time for a reaction when the diplomat pulls Harel into an embrace, only pulling away to lay hiccuping butterfly kisses on her lover’s grey, bruised face, apologizing for every pain she caused, every time she pushed her away.

For everything. 

“I’m sorry,” she tries to speak, “ _Mi dispiace, amore_ , I-”

“It’s been a rough few days for the both of us, huh?” Harel murmurs, her head buried in the Antivan’s shoulder, “You know you can talk to me, Kadan. I’ll always listen.”

The Qunari tightens her arms around the woman, feeling the Anchor pulse from the attention, finally feeling better after the coldness of their first reunion. 

Josephine promises, by whispering into a grey ear, that she would communicate. 

It was shameful how she prided herself on her ability to control conversation without being able to do something so simple.

To speak plainly to someone who loved her so dearly.

Her expression dawned to one of realization, her mind drifting to Torrie, then to Harel, understanding the emotion felt was the same.

A delicate hand travelled down the Inquisitors back before moving up to the back of her neck, tracing the scar that spanned around her throat.

“I love you, Harel.”

* * *

They were both emotionally charged and thoroughly tapped out for crying. Wearing her cotton nightclothes, Harel removed her shirt to place over her paramour who had soaked through her nightdress with tears. Josephine had removed her nightdress before bringing her knees up to her chest, her ingrained sense of shame still active. 

Two grey palms lay flat on dusky knees before the Qunari spoke, her eyes a mite mischievous, nearly sending a sob tearing through Josephine.

“You remind me of him, in some ways,” the diplomat speaks as Harel gestures for her to raise her arms, “He had the most playful eyes, in fact, he too was quite hasty,” the shirt is slipped over her frame as Harel tugs the fabric down, “incorrigibly so.”

The fabric was too large, the collar was stretched showing off dusky collarbones and the length reached past the Ambassador’s thighs. It was a warm, worn shirt that smelled of Arbor Blessing and Elfroot and she thanked Harel with a kiss for her thoughtfulness. 

“You think I’m hasty?” Harel said through a grin while laying on her side, pulling the diplomat close, “I think on my feet, that’s different.”

“And you have an answer for everything.” Josephine drawls, her accented voice laden with sarcasm.

Curled against the Qunari’s chest, a grey palm tried to soothe Josephine’s pain as it ran soft circles against her back. The soft green glow emitted from the Anchor made her feel safer, the chill in her bones disappearing entirely.

Her world was shrouded by Love. 

“Torrie and I first met on the docks; his father was a renowned leather tradesman…”

And so she opened the bleeding wound, telling a tale to Harel she told no other, not even Leliana. It had been years since Torrie’s name was uttered; on that morning, when Tranquility was miraculously broken, a dream haunted her and the name preceding it. She spoke of the apparition plaguing the stairs, the guilt taken form to harass her in the night; in a waking nightmare like those that would rouse her from bed.

Harel was attentive, her arms, a warm cage that supplied only the purest of intent; a will to see Josephine secure in her darkest of moments. There was no judgement as she recalled the phantom by the stairs nor anger at her previous behaviour. The horned woman just wanted her back, the person she fell in love with, each brush of her hand tender as if reaffirming, reassuring that all she wanted was for the diplomat to be well; to love her back with the bleeding ardour she experienced.

Even as she spoke, Josephine wasn’t ready to face the thoughts that kept growing. The tiring, agonizing loss and horror kept building but in order to overcome pain, one must remember pain.

She had loved once before, so strongly, so passionately, so fervently and so innocently that such a brutal catastrophe scared and scarred her; her pen becoming her sword, her words, her shield. 

She thought maybe, to push Harel away would be to save herself from the pain of one day losing her but the mage kept coming back, despite the snapping responses, the cold glares, the dismissing words.

The Inquisitor kept trying, all because she felt those three words strongly in her chest despite everything Josephine said and did.

The Ambassador did confess, however, into the grey chest, that her emotions had at one point been uncontrolled but never so frigid.

The callousness of her actions surprised her, shocked her even but with every sting of emotion, the pain dried up like a flower under the Antivan sun, turning to nothing.

Harel, sweet Harel, lay her head atop the diplomat’s hair, trying her best to assist, to assuage, to attempt to understand and love the woman who only ever showed the world what was requested of her.

The beloved, intelligent and helpful mediator.

Nothing in this world was perfect but as they held each other close, each replying to the words said, to each story told, the world felt as if no wrong could ever be committed. 

* * *

Their dreams were untainted, untouched by pain, a tether holding strong within the Fade.

But Harel’s paramour was no mage so all she could do was watch from afar while wandering away occasionally; looking at the Spirits that called her name. They were bound and though they didn’t understand everything about each other, they understood.

It was a learning process.

Harel skirted the outside of Josephine’s dreams, still preferring to give her privacy; should the telltale signs of a nightmare appear, she would be there to kill it before it drew breath. She couldn’t summon the same ability as the night of her Tranquil break. All she could do was tap her hands on the barrier of Josephine’s dreams, waiting for something to try and get in.

Like a knight waiting for the monsters to come. 

She still saw it though, as her Fade-borne legs kicked up greenish-black dust.

The blurring, the disquiet, the pain around Josephine, surrounding her, becoming her.

Though Harel was happy to not be in the Void anymore, she still worried about the woman she loved.

And she felt fear in her soul at the familiarity in the way she faded away, feeling something pull from inside the Fade, something wicked with its eyes turned on the human instead of the Qunari.

It felt different, yet the same as the Nightmare.

All she knew is that it was sinister.

* * *

Neither of them wanted to face her wrath but with the way they kept squabbling, they already tasted it twice. Within the War Room were two of the three Advisors and one Qunari elf, all three grouped nearer to the windows; forced into mediation. 

“Apologize.”

“But-”

“Harel.” Josephine ground out.

“She’s the-”

“ **Harel.”** Josephine said again, leaving no room for saccharine; leaving no room for anything but the demand.

Leliana nearly cracked a smile at the mage’s suffering before those grey eyes were on her, cutting into her like a blade. The Orlesian regretted many things but a sit down with an angry Josephine was right at the top.

“I’m sorry.” the Qunari elf mumbled before the diplomat smacked the back of her hand into the horned elf’s ribs, “I said I’m sorry.”  
  


“ ** _Inquisitor_** , please show at least a **modicum** of decorum _,_ ” Josephine spoke, her voice a dangerous tone of sinister sweetness, “and apologize with legitimacy.” there is a brief softness to her tone, “Leli only does these things to protect me,” a hazel grey glare shoots over to the Bard, “even though her ways are extreme.”

Though the Spymaster was known for being frightening, she still felt her skin crawl when Josephine was angry at her. Maker help her indeed.

“I’m sorry about all that stuff I said,” the Qunari elf spoke with an honest, saddened voice, “I was kinda sad and angry with everything that’s been going on,” a leather-clad arm wraps around Josephine’s shoulders, pulling her close, “and you jumping on my case just made me...explode.”

The Antivan gave a smile as she leaned into the mage’s touch, her expression expectant of Leliana, every part of her saying _Niceness before knives_.

“I suppose I am apologetic as well,” Leliana speaks before she’s cut off by another glare, “Alright...I...deeply regret the way I treated you, not only after but before your Tranquility.” blue eyes that never drop their guard finally swim with genuine light, “Life has so often taken away the people I...care for...I often feel the more brutal my actions the greater my chances of success.” she looks down, almost as if ashamed, “I may have unjustly taken out my anger on you, Inquisitor.”

Small hands reach up to grab a grey one settling near her chest, a smile on Josephine’s face as each party properly expressed themselves. 

“Wonderful,” the Antivan bubbles as she unlatches herself from Harel’s grip, “If there are no more cracks in the foundation to see to, I must be off,” Josephine begins to move away before turning back again, “Do try and get along, please. If not for the Inquisition, then for our collective peace of mind.”

Leliana sees Josephine move her hand, beckoning Harel to bend and the horned elf complies until she’s almost fully hunched. A gentle, ink-stained hand grasps the Qunari’s jaw, pressing a light kiss to Harel’s lips before mumbling into the skin, _I’ll see you soon, amore._

Thoroughly lovestruck, the mage stayed in that bent position even after the War Room door closed with a rattling thud.

“You two are positively nauseating,” Leliana says while pulling her gloves; a long-running habit.

The Qunari straightens up, placing a hand on her lower back to ease the strain, “Better nauseating than toxic, yeah,” she replies with her signature grin.

Leliana looks outside the window, her eyes catching the sunlight and for once, she doesn’t look ominous. She looks much like you’d expect a Chantry Laysister to look like, calm, thoughtful, sweet.

Harel props her elbow against the open windowsill, enjoying the companionable silence with the Spymaster for once. Neither of them at each other's throats.

“She threw an inkwell at me,” Leliana whispered

That...was surprising.

“I’m sorry, did you say my sweet, lovely Josie tossed shit like she’s Sera?” Harel sputtered.

Blue eyes turned to face the Qunari elf, her expression barely hinting at a smirk from the comedic reply, her mind too occupied to give the jape any time. The horned woman herself immediately turned despondent, her joke, merely a way to sidestep her ever-growing concern for The Antivan. A smile coating her like armour, cracking under the pressure, cracking under the melancholy. 

“If what you said before was true, Josie is changing for the worse,” her eyes move to the War Room door, “as she cannot recall that aggression as if it never occurred.”

There’s a pause as the Inquisitor's expression becomes serious, “She’s losing time...and she can’t control her emotions?” the Qunari runs a hand roughly through her hair, “Leliana,” she exhales harshly, “I feel like there’s something fucking bad going on with her, her dreams feel...cold. That plus the whole depressive fucking episode she had after-”

The Qunari elf stops, halting her tongue, remembering that Leliana didn’t know about Torrie. 

But the Spymistress is perceptive, her training in the Game, her training in general, peering past the unspoken words, combing through the Inquisitor's expression, coming through her soul. Leliana hears the words and pieces together a picture, a memory, of Josephine in those few times they met before the Inquisition; how the cheerful splendour of a woman so sociable easily retracted at times. Certain words, certain people, certain sounds, a swift malaise digging into her and refusing to let go. 

As a Spymaster, it was her duty to know everything, even the things Josephine thought no one else knew. As a friend, it was her duty to ensure these secrets remained such yet not so clandestine that the poison of the information remained a pressurised venom in Josephine's soul, waiting to explode, waiting to become something catastrophic.

“After remembering the Amatore boy?” Leliana speaks as if she’s a blood mage easily pulling thoughts out of Harel’s head, “I’ve been friends with Josie for years, there are indeed occasions where she becomes reclusive but never as bad as recently,” a sigh, “What you witnessed was hyperbolic, far grander than any of her prior grieving periods.”  
  
The mage leaned against the wall, inwardly shaking her head, knowing that _of course, Leliana would know even when Josie didn’t tell her, of course, she knew everyone’s secrets._

When Leliana speaks of Josephine's closest kept secret, her expression becomes compassionate, as if holding a small bird in her hands, a bird so easy to crush but its song is so sweet that the palms will still, the fingers frozen in order to hear the tune that soothes like no balm can. 

Harel allows the Nightingale silence, letting her take the time to make the first word. They need cohesion; the fight still fresh in the horned elf's mind appears foolish now as she sees two types of love stand face to face in the War Room, the romantic love for a partner and the platonic, protective love of a close friend. 

“She appears less afflicted today, however,” the Spymaster continues, folding her arms, “but she is still suffering this flux,” Harel sees Leliana think before she speaks as if choosing her words carefully, “by chance, did you experience anything similar regarding your Tranquility?”

The Mistress can’t see it, the way the word wraps its way around Harel’s chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs, drowning her in an ocean, severing her veins, making her scream till her voice is bloody and raw. Making her want to tear off her skin to escape the prison, escape the endless slumber in a coffin only big enough for her to barely breathe.

Harel takes a deep breath before replying, “Somewhat...the lost time, the emotions, the hallucinations...it adds up, but Josie isn’t a mage, fuck, she doesn’t even have the Gift anywhere in her. What the fuck would you call non-mage Tranquility?” she closes her eyes, the sight of the stumped Spymistress making her lose hope, "What's happening to her, Leliana?"

Neither of them had an answer.

Both of them only had questions.

The candelabra overhead flickered before being blown out without the assistance of the wind.

* * *

The Wolf slept not a wink as she held Josephine’s struggling form in her arms. The sleepwalking traumas of Haven seemed manageable compared to the writhing, clawing reactions from Josephine. Her eyes would snap open every once in a while, her legs kicking out, legitimately trying to pull away, her mind in a shroud as her nails would gouge into the Inquisitor’s arms. 

Harel sat upright on the bed, squeezing her paramour and the cotton shirt she wore, squeezing her as if to remind her that it was a dream as if to awaken her. 

To let go would mean to allow her freedom to run into the fire, as she tried once before, nearly throwing herself into the fireplace, nearly burning herself irreparably.

To let go would mean to watch her try and leap down the stairs, an act already performed once that night. 

It was the first night things were this bad.

It started with a dream as any other, Harel flitting through her realm, exploring more and more of the Fade, exploring the new locations opened up to her by way of her earthly experiences. 

Then a scream pierced through the green haze, a shriek so gut-wrenchingly familiar that she found herself running through a tangle of Spirits, her panic nearly turning them into Demons. 

Her mind had taken her far as the Fade in sleep, was not traversed by foot; Spirits of Compassion hovered around her, glowing with worry, trying to help. 

But the barrier held strong as she beat her fists against the transparent shield, watching as Josephine ran through Haven once again, trekking through the blood and gore till she collapsed on the bridge, a person hovering over her.

Deformed Torrie holds a knife as Harel holds out her hand, the Anchor glowing wildly.

The Antivan man plunges the weapon downwards as the world breaks apart; a sound akin to a Rift being opened or closed was the last thing she had heard before she awoke next to a night-terror ridden Josie.

Green sparks fell around the two in a weak mist as Harel refused to let go of the trembling woman, even as she unintentionally harmed her. 

For a moment, green eyes stared into the fireplace, at first, as a simple movement of the eye, then transfixed on the ebb and flow of the flame. It roared despite having just a few charred logs, far brighter and hotter than it had the right to be.

With every spike in the terror Josie felt, the flames rose to match her suffering.

Harel’s eyes widen as she looks into the fire, her palm glowing as if reminding her; a memory, a time where she grieved the loss of Ellana, a recollection of suffering in the Ambassador’s office.

_She looked into the fire, its flames rising and falling as if following the ebb of her magic._

She remembered the way the flames stared back at her, taunting her, mimicking her.

With an arm fastened around Josephine, Harel pointed her palm at the flames, the Anchor glowing bright, a gleam that began to take up the room as it formed a knotted rope, pulling against the flames as it would pull against a Rift.

The flames shifted as if in pain, twisting under the green snare, hissing and popping embers, vomiting charcoal onto the stone floor. 

Then darkness.

As if a bucket of water drenched the fire as if a strong wind blew out the blaze. 

She’s left in pitch blackness with nothing but the light of the moon to grant her sight.

But she feels Josephine breathe a deep sigh, curling up against Harel’s chest, finally resting, finally at peace. The night terror melted away as if it never existed.

Harel pressed a shaking kiss to her lover’s head before extracting herself, her face and body in shock.

Her legs were slow to move, scraping against the floor as she found her way to the balcony door, even within the darkness. She had no time to feel fear for the mountain’s height nor retract from the cold. 

A finger held within her teeth, signalling a Rook with a sharp whistle, the bird flying towards her, ready to deliver her message.

Scrawling against the windy bannister, she writes a missive, short in tone and function describing what she did, what she saw and what she envisioned.

As the fire died, she had seen a house in Val Royeaux, turned over in every way, blood and body parts kept in neat compartments, crystals glittering from every shelf.

And by the fireplace, in a chair, feeding the flames was a hand funnelling magic into the charcoal, peering into the fire as one would a looking glass. 

Turning its head to stare into her, green eyes held a red glow to its pupils, a face that shone with stark cruelty she never expected to see.

Ellana was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Were you expecting that? I wasn't that's for damn sure" said WH4T, lying through they damn teeth. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> I like to set things up to knock em down, like referencing my own previously written lines and other stuff etc. 
> 
> I like doing original shit bc sticking to the script makes me yawn big time. 
> 
> The story is convoluted because my brain is a crisscross of wires all firing off at the same time
> 
> Either way, love yall, see ya, fuckin bye.


	20. A Variety of Things, None of which we can Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it goes, the spiral down,  
> As the Inquisitor and all begins to drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. ITS ME! I'm excited for DA4  
> I actually like this chapter (i know i write long chapters)
> 
> Here's some in-game dialogue to explain why I make everyone in this fic miserable: "Look, Seeker, if you love a character, you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer"-Varric
> 
> So uh, please have fun and just have a great day everyone. Love you all <3
> 
> What songs did I listen to today:  
> [Poets of the Fall feat. Triosis-Rebirth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HltxMawzfnw) (a very very very beautiful acoustic rendition of the song; the lyrics are to die for)  
> [Poets of the Fall feat. Triosis- Carnival of Rust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM0J5kRMGaw)  
> [Poets of the Fall-Cradled in Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=caOLcgr028A) (oh girl, them lyrics so fucking good, take a listen goddamn its just-)  
> [Poets of the Fall-Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OlshWg3isxQ) (yeaaaa ofc i chose this song lol)

It honestly could have been worse. 

He could have been locked away in the prisons or, Falon’Din forbid, ‘missing in action’. Instead, he was confined to the wine room which had a surprising amount of privacy despite its proximity to the Kitchen. Shifting in his chair, Loranil bounced his leg up and down, his nerves frayed, as he began drumming his fists on his knees. They didn’t even bind him, not that it would have helped. He wasn’t too keen on gaining anyone’s anger by escaping. 

He wasn’t expecting this to be part of his life in the Inquisition, no sir. He was expecting to remain a scout, as he did in his Clan; never strong enough to be a Hunter and never handsy enough to be a Crafter, the only thing he was good at was running and watching. That’s probably why he was booted out from Commander Rutherford’s watch and placed under Sister Leliana’s wing.

Too bad he couldn’t run right now, not with Scout Ritts guarding the door with a minutely sympathetic face. She crossed her arms while leaning against the door; though silent, she had a look as if hoping that what little she heard wasn’t true. Loranil was a good kid -fucking antsy and dumb as hell yes- but good, naive and, most importantly, _innocent_. 

There was no way he could have done this. 

The young man brought his hands up to scrub through his red, scruffy hair, the dreading anticipation sending shockwaves of cold fear throughout his sprightly form. He had counted the labels of the bottles, reading the fading wax seals, doing anything to take his mind off of his lenient incarceration. 

There’s a knock at the door as Ritts moves away, prying the door open slightly to look at the person who asked for entry. Once recognized, the Scout’s stature changed, snapping up at attention before opening the door; standing to the side to allow the person entry.

If he were a mage like Taven, Loranil would have probably felt pinpricks of magic boil in his hands. Instead, what boiled on his palms was a heaping sheen of sweat. 

Elgar’nan, Fen’Harel was certainly taller than he remembered. Loranil tilted his head up, a drop of sweat falling from his hairline back into his hair as he looked upon the Dread Wolf. 

Long legs made her journey short as she strode past Ritts; a door closing with no Elven scout present signalling his probable demise at the hands of the Qunari. Harel was a blur as she moved, taking a knee quickly so that she was eye to eye with the shaking lad. 

Maybe now he would see why Clan Lavellan cursed her as the Dread Wolf. Maybe now he’d see the truth in those tales; many, many ill-borne rumours all becoming reality. 

Instead, Harel clapped her hands on the elf’s knees, stilling the constant bouncing before looking at him with a half-frown.

“You’re fuckin lucky I’m here instead of Leliana,” Harel said, “Officially, you’re under her jurisdiction because you’re a scout BUT,” she raises a hand to clap back down on his knee, “I owe both your Clan and Dalish a favour so I’m here. Plus this whole problem means alot to me,” she folded her arms to rest against his legs, “I don’t want to do anything drastic so just tell me, Lori. Why in Elgar’nan’s firey ass did you keep the letters from us?” Harel's face is despondent for a moment before it flashes back to puzzled, "The Valo-Kas and Clan Lavellan's letters." 

Ah. Right. Those.

A small squeak escaped the young elf, his Valaslin painted with sweat, as he tried to think back as best as he could to why and where and what the fuck with those letters. It was supposed to be a simple job: go to the Rookery, check the letters, send responses and receive the feedback to give to whichever Advisor needed it. That was it and yet, he failed. 

“I-i...I don’t know,” Loranil whined, his eyes darting between the wine bottles and the Inquisitor’s green stare, “I had them in my hand, I had them, and-”

“They were stuffed in your bedroll, Loranil,” Harel said cutting him off, her face becoming more stoic, “Leliana has reason to believe you’re a spy and it honestly isn’t looking very good for you,” though her face was stony, there was compassion in her eyes, “What. Happened.”

Loranil shook his head, his hands balled by his temples as he began sniffling; little teardrops began dotting Harel’s hand. 

“I don’t know!” he snivelled, his breath beginning to come faster as he realized the gravity of the mess he was in, “I don’t know, Lethallan, I don’t know! All I remember is getting the letters and doing my job! I don’t know how they got in my bedroll! I DON’T KNOW! I’M NOT A SPY!”

Harel quickly shushed the young elf, trying to maintain a line between gentle and cruel as this was an interrogation after all, regardless of her feelings for the boy. That and she didn’t want every kitchenmaid and their grandmother to realize what was happening. She chose the wine room against Leliana’s wishes to throw him in the Dungeon; he was just a young Clansboy, he needed gentle chiding, not blades against his skin.

His impassioned behaviour certainly didn’t make him look any less guilty.

Loranil tried to muffle his quiet sobs, not willing to get in any more trouble than he already was. 

“I’m telling the truth, Fen’Harel,” the young Scout says with as much confidence as he could muster, “I didn’t stash those letters. I swear on the entire Pantheon that I remember doing my job! T-taking the letters to the transfer point for each Advisor and sending the responses, nothing more, Lethallan. I swear it.” 

For a moment, the room was still, save for the specks of dust drifting in the air. Harel looked into the young man’s eyes, unnerving him as she stared yet the boy refused to look away. He blinked many times, his eyes still red with tears but never once backing down. 

Little Lori, who she remembered tailing behind Dalish in the Arlathvhen, Little Lori who clung to his sister’s leg like a lost pup, Little Lori who cried every time the Hunter’s brought in a fresh kill. 

He would always be Little Lori to Harel and the Clans but now, she realized, quite suddenly, that he was little no more despite his sensitive nature. 

And now he was being tried for espionage. 

Uncrossing her arms, Harel lay each palm on the young Scout’s knee, straightening her spine as she looked at the lad. Loranil had been some of the few who treated her kindly in the Arlathvhen. She didn’t want to have to beat the information out of him.

He could be lying, though she knew Loranil was a bad liar; the boy was grown however, things could change.

People could pretend. 

Maker’s breath, Harel couldn’t interrogate the boy properly without feeling bad, she should have just let Leliana handle it as she wanted. Taking her bottom lip in her teeth briefly she knew she couldn’t have. The Spymistress was brutal, even more so these days which irked both Josephine and the Inquisitor. They had thought she was getting better, leaning towards mercy, yet as a snowflake melts upon the grass, that too was undone. 

She wouldn’t have the boy scarred. She couldn’t. 

Electricity crackled causing Loranil to jump in his chair, his eyes darting to the horned elf’s palm which glowed green.

“A Rift?!” the boy queried, his tone high with anxiety, “Here?”

“No, no, this happens sometimes,” the Herald replied as she allowed the Mark to hiss on the Scout’s leg, “It reacts to emotions sometimes,”

At once, green sparks danced up the Scouts legs, causing him to tremble from the touch of magic; though he believed in the Gift, he wasn’t too keen about the Anchor. Harel focused her thoughts on the boy, watching him as she felt herself overwhelmed with anxiety, fear, near-crippling worry about her place in the Inquisition, only to realize that those weren’t her own emotions. 

She felt Loranil’s will, like a current rising in the river of her consciousness, dipping up slowly from the depths to carry forward his feelings before they dipped down, disappearing back into himself. 

So often she experienced other’s feeling her own emotions but now, she felt Loranil’s clearly, his mind was a tangle of confusion; no guilt bled from his heart, no ill-will of any sort. He truly had no idea what the fuck he had been dragged into. 

“What…” the young Scout breathed, trying to grasp words, “What was that?”

Harel released her grip from the young elf’s knees, pulling away, reeling as she slowly rose up. 

“You’re innocent,” Harel whispered.

“I am?” he replied, quickly correcting his tone, “Of course I am! I told you I didn’t do anything!”

“And I believe you,” came the Qunari as she dusted off her legs, holding out her hand to Loranil, gesturing for him to take hold, “Go to the Barracks, rest up then go harass your sister,” there was a relieved grin on her face, “She’ll want to know that you’re alright.”

It’s as if he hadn’t breathed since he was detained with the way Loranil gulped down air, his stomach unknotting from the dissipating stress. Grabbing Harel’s hand, he allowed her to hoist him up before grabbing him by both shoulders, her grey hands like a bear’s; strong and huge. 

“Not a word to anyone about why you were here. If they ask, say it’s because you sent the wrong important letter to the wrong Rook and had to explain shit, ok.” Harel spoke, her voice heavy and serious. 

All the young lad could do was nod furiously, muttering a quick _yes Ser_ before being gently pushed out the room.

There was a brief moment of silence before she heard two pairs of footsteps and the sudden but quiet voices of Loranil and Ritts; most likely discussing what the fuck just happened to him. Harel remained in the cellar, releasing a deep sigh before taking a seat on Loranil’s chair. She landed as gracelessly as usual, nearly splintering the poor furniture under her crass movements.

That boy got himself unwittingly involved in a very big problem, only escaping by the skin of his teeth and the good luck of the Anchor. Harel lay her head back as she began massaging the skin around her horns, trying to allay the headache that never fucking went away.

She felt old despite her age, she felt tired and compressed, she felt a variety of things, none of which she could control. Leaning forward, the mage brought her eyes to stare at the Mark, tracing the sick green lines with an equally green gaze. 

She thought of the letters which pressed heavily on her soul. She had gone to Leliana in the beginning after hearing the troubling words from Taashath; only one response from Harel after many letters were sent to her. The Spymaster had not heard of missing letters but used her incomparable skills to ensure everything was on track.

Which it most certainly was not.

Leliana was no beast but the way her expression curdled in anger at yet another turncoat nearly had Harel physically restrain her. 

Nearly. 

Information was dire and need to know within her sphere; the presence of anything she didn’t know was insufferable at best. She was a Spymaster. She could not allow a gap of knowledge nor suffer another Butler situation. 

Thank the Maker Harel handled Loranil after all. She was quite certain she would have never seen the boy again. 

Curling her fingers under her sleeve, Harel pulled the material up to show the web of greenish lines crawling up her forearm; every pulse of blood forced the colour to shine brighter. 

The pain was getting worse too; with every new horror that was conquered, a fresh one moved to take its place. She closed her eyes, shifting her world to darkness as she held her hand in the other, feeling the Mark throb, pulling her mind away from the hidden letters, pulling her mind away entirely until there was nothing but darkness in her mind. 

Tendrils of magic brushed her mind as she tried to heal her sickly state, tried to dispel her fears and overwhelming anxiety with a careful healing aura but the magic was repelled as it so often was. 

The only thing that helped her, that gave her solace in the abyss of her soul, was the bright spot of light that threatened to fade in the pain of existence. 

She thought of Josephine, of the firelight decorating her hair with soft outlines of orange and gold, of the hazel grey eyes which stared studiously at every written word, at the delicate, ink-stained hands which were always warm, always ready to touch. 

If love were to be her balm, then let it spread. Maker please, let it spread and let it stay.

Please.

* * *

“Inconclusive.” 

“You’re certain that’s the best answer you can give me?”

“I would not give you any less than the truth, Inquisitor.”

Harel leaned across the War Table, accidentally knocking over a resource collection marker as she stared Leliana down.

“There has been no activity from that house though we cannot be certain there is anyone still inside, much less, Ellana Lavellan,” Leliana replied, noticing the subtle twitch in Harel’s eye at the name, “The house belongs to a merchant named Vicinius whom we have researched thoroughly; no ties to Ellana but the Venatori are very interested in him.”

“Inconclusive be damned, I say we storm the house and corner whoever’s in there,” Cullen pipes up, his hand squeezing his sword pommel, “It’s better than this cat and mouse game we keep playing while Corypheus continues to make moves.”

There’s a fidgety stance to the Commander which compliments his sallow pallor; Lyrium withdrawal was riding him hard and it wasn’t getting any easier it seemed. The brusque nature of his tone and suggestion was proof enough. 

“I agree with both of you,” Harel says, drawing both Advisor’s attention, “Yes, we need to be careful but we can’t jump at every fucking shadow we see,” her eyes darted from Leliana to Cullen, “and we can’t just stampede into an unknown situation.” Harel drew herself upwards, “Especially since I’ll be the one going in.”

Silent until now, Josephine had yet to speak, her attention directed to the clipboard until Harel made it clear she was ready to jump into something dangerous. She opened her mouth, most likely to warn gently of danger before being outshined by Cullen and his griping. 

“Once something gets done.” he grinds out, moving his jaw after he speaks as if it rests uncomfortably in his skull. 

“ _Something_ well-planned, Commander, as she will be traipsing into an area of interest for the Venatori,” Leliana is not gentle with her tone, “We must not forget that they possess Spellbinders; we know not what harm they pose the Inquisitor with her broken Tranquility.”

“You believe they will bind her? Corrupt her? Look at Seeker Pentaghast,” Cullen retorts, “She’s broken Tranquility and is perfectly fine.”

“She was no mage, Commander,”

“No, but I don’t see a reason to squabble over the Tranquility when it’s already cured.”

“We do not know the repercussions to follo-”

“ **ENOUGH** with the **_fucking_** Tranquility!” Harel shouts, her timbre as savage as the glow in her eyes.

The sharp bark catches all Advisor’s attention, forcing them to stare at the origin; a deeply breathing and irate Qunari elf whose lips were pursed from the constant utterance of the word _Tranquility_. Cullen grit his teeth as a migraine continued assaulting him, he was ready to snap though he wasn’t far gone enough to rip into the Inquisitor.

His skin felt wrong, everything felt fucking wrong. 

Once more as if noticing herself, Harel changed, shifting her anger to muted humour. 

“I’ll be fine, I’m taking my team with me. Dorian will mock me, Bull will throw me, Cole will make me cry, you know how it is.” the horned elf said, frivolity quickly pulling itself over her sudden outburst, “I’ll leave today. I want to get on top of this as soon as possible,” a grey hand moved to pick up the marker she tipped over, scooting it back to its original space, “Especially if Ellana’s involved.”

There was no reply at first from the Advisors, before Leliana tipped her head in a short nod, folding her hands behind her back. Cullen muttered some word of understanding as best as he could while Josephine again remained silent, her attention completely on Harel but with unfocused eyes, nearly looking past her. 

The Qunari elf noticed her love had yet to smile or speak since entering the War Room; though it was not a place of joy, Josephine was the type to bring levity into any space. That plus she needed the Ambassador for her mediation skills, especially with her two bastard colleagues on the warpath these days. 

The space felt emptier than usual without that spontaneous chirping. It truly was a War Room with the way everyone fought with the other’s opinions. 

“The rebel mages have warded each hearth, Inquisitor,” Leliana proclaims, “Your Trainer has assisted them in ensuring a lack of Rift-based anomalies, admirably so in fact,” she glances up at the candelabra, though checked for problems, still wary of every flame in every room, “That is my only update, Your Worship.”

Harel takes in the counsel, before nodding her head, her mind finally given sanctuary from the occurrence in the fireplace, even as she pondered its intent.

“Alright...if that’s all” Harel spoke, elongating her words to allow any of her Advisors to interject, “then class is dismissed.”

And just like that, a stressful meeting came to an end even as the tension refused to fade.

Footsteps echoed past Harel’s ears as each Advisor filed out; a grey hand had moved up to press the heel of her palm into her forehead, moving further to rest her forearm against her white hair. Was that a headache coming? 

The pounding in her head made itself clear at the question.

Yep, that was a headache.

The door clunked closed as she breathed deeply, only stopping when she felt something press against her. 

Josephine had abandoned her clipboard to embrace the Inquisitor, squeezing the Qunari in her grip as her head rested against the larger woman’s chest. Harel reciprocated, leaning into the touch, resting her head on Josephine’s despite the many pins that threatened to poke her. 

“How are you feeling?” Harel whispered as she pressed her hand to the back of the diplomat’s head, “You didn’t speak for the whole meeting.”

There was a jaded air to the Ambassador as she held on to Harel as if supporting her weight on the Qunari. 

It was understandable. 

The recent personal events were draining her; the lack of sleep, the daymares that faded into nightmares, her feeble appetite, her unsmiling, dour expression, her mood swings.

All Harel could think was that yet another horror popped up to crush her spirit by gouging out Josephine’s cheerful luster. 

It was fucking overwhelming.

“I will live.” Josephine finally said, her voice tired as she snuggled into the Qunari’s coat, “It is you who I fear for,” she pauses as she skates a hand up Harel’s back, “Are you certain this is not a trap? Is it possible your vision of Ellana was just a mirage?” her voice is softer now, “I cannot help but fret at times.”

The horned elf breaks away from the embrace to hold Josephine’s face in both hands, watching as her grey hazel eyes stare as if from within a haze, “I’ll be back, I just need to see for myself. I saw Ellana in that horrible house, I need to scope things out...for my peace of mind as well as the mission.”

She brushed her thumb over the diplomat’s cheek, watching how her eyes fluttered closed, relaxing into the touch, lulled to sleep before snapping open again.

“I will keep faith that you will be fine then,” the Antivan muttered as Harel released her grip, her tone lacking conviction. 

“And I’ll keep faith that you’ll finally fucking eat something today,” the Qunari replies with a playful tone, “Do you want a repeat of last night.” 

For once, an emotion other than crestfallen or bitter showed on the noblewoman’s face; the slight crinkle of distaste as she recalled Harel sitting at her side, ensuring she ate something, anything so that she didn’t waft through the day like an anaemic ghost. Normally Harel was the troublesome one but these days, with the way Josephine’s hunger waned, Harel assumed the mantle of concerned responsibility, almost annoyingly so. 

The War Room was not a place of joy, especially now when it was a place of high tension with the Arbor Wilds breathing down their collective necks. Still, as Harel watched Josephine gather her things to return to her office, she felt the nauseous pressure of the world squash her a little less. 

Even so, while catching her paramour’s hand in her own as they walked, Harel wished she was a better Somniari so she could properly protect Josephine from whatever plagued her.

Much as a mirror reflects the sun, so too did the pain in the Antivan reflect back to her, amplifying in waves.

When she finds Ellana, she would ask her for an answer; Ellana always had an answer, Ellana always knew everything.

* * *

There were so many, each a new and different type of pain twisting a phantom blade into her stomach. Her fingers traced each line of each letter; two worlds collided on every piece of parchment, two sides of her family laid bare on aged pages. Weeks old correspondence hounded her as she read further. Each patch of vellum sat across her desk as she went through the small pile. 

Taashath had written to her on behalf of the Valo-Kas regarding their current movements and jobs; recounting how the team missed her, how Herah found Taashath a piss poor replacement as a healer. How Shokrakar was still asking about the blade she broke. How Kaariss was still making awful poems.

Harel gave a small sad smile as she brushed her hand over the last of the letters. It was fucking ludicrous yet understandable how a large organization like the Inquisiton could lose a few letters. There was always so much going on...even so, she should have been on top of it since the Valo-Kas was more of a family to her than her own. 

There was tension in Harel’s jaw as she looked at a separate, much thinner pile of letters from Clan Lavellan. The Keeper wasn’t too pleased to hear silence from the Inquisitor in regards to Ellana’s burial. Another correspondence spoke of the Clan in the Exalted Plains informing them of the burial in Var Bellanaris. Every jagged slash of ink was a reminder that she didn’t belong to the Clan; that her blood, albeit of the People, was still diluted. 

Was still cursed. 

The Keeper was mostly stoic in her letters to Harel and though begrudgingly pleased that Ellana was given sanctuary in the hallowed Elvhen grounds, was not so forgiving to the Wolf ignoring her for so long. Nothing Harel ever did was good enough for the Clan. 

She was sure to hear back from each faction soon with the lines of communication closely guarded despite Loranil’s faux pas. 

A thought rattled around in Harel’s head, quietly, as her finger brushed against a quill. She was to write to Keeper Deshanna, despite her distaste for the Clan, regarding what she saw.

Instead, her hand stilled, the vision replaying in her mind; Ellana’s green eyes glowed with a crimson sheen, her hand reaching out to the flames. 

Harel felt an abyssal emotion boil in her, plunging and dark, egged on by the vision. 

Did the Keeper deserve to know what she saw of Ellana? To know she was most likely alive? To know anything?

No. 

Clan Lavellan didn’t deserve anything for the suffering they allowed.

Let the Keeper remain believing that there was no hope of seeing Ellana again. 

The Qunari smiled a small smile, devoid of warmth as she gathered up Clan Lavellan’s missives, scooting out of her chair and moving the short steps towards the fireplace.

Each scrap of page smelled of home, of the wilds of Wycome with trace amounts of dirt clinging to the vellum. The pages found themselves crunched in grey hands before being flung one by one into the flames. The fire took its feeding gratefully as each missive curled with smoke, blackening under the heat as embers sawed into the darkening brown pages. 

The Rift in the fireplace didn’t disturb her again as she waved her palm over the flames. Once it was gone, it was gone. The fire held no power, only heat. Though Josephine continued twisting in the night from terrors, it would not be exacerbated by the strange Rift. 

Even so, the way the blaze consumed her troubling parchments was...enthralling. Though she was a storm mage, Harel had never loved fire more than within that moment. 

Ellana too was a master of Inferno magic.

Never once taking her eyes off the flames, Harel moved her hand closer to the blaze till her fingertips touched the flickering blaze. The fire curled around her digits, licking at her nails; her eyes dancing with sunset hues.

Maybe she was more like Ellana than she first thought. 

* * *

From the cover of darkness, a motley crew walked into a house of nothing. Devoid of life, devoid of sound, devoid of light. 

An antithesis to existence. 

The fireplace had long since died, shrouding the home, hampering sight. Harel nodded to Dorian who drew his staff to conjure a flame to help them see. The young Qunari followed, snapping her fingers to produce a small but radiant light on her thumb.

“I suppose size doesn’t matter,” Dorian spoke at Harel with his usual snark.

The horned elf rolled her eyes as she waved her hand in a wide circle in an attempt to shed light on more of the house. The darkness was pervasive, eating away the light as it moved, soaking each corner with a void-like absence. 

“It ain't about the size of the sea, it’s about the dexterity of the Dreadnought” Bull quipped, his smile half-illuminated in the magic glow, “Which you already know, Dorian.”

There was an exasperated sigh from the Tevinter mage as he moved with the Inquisitor, refusing to give the great oaf any more encouragement. 

“He binds me with ribbon and rope and love, so soft and silky yet hot enough to burn.” comes a voice from above.

Harel wipes her finger across a shelf as she listens to Dorian reprimand Cole; highly flustered, the Vint is lucky the darkness hid his blush. The Spirit Boy hops down from the bannister, looking over into the first floor with his face obscured by shadows. The gleaming metal in his hat was the only sign that he existed. 

“No one’s been in here for a while,” Harel says to catch her team's attention, rolling the thick dust in between her fingers, “Looks like Vicinius forgot he lived here.” she looks up to the second floor, to the boy scarecrow by the bannister, “Check the rooms up there, Cole.”

He gives a meek response as he moves, the sound of his footsteps light but heard. No longer silent as a wisp floating across the Fade.

“More like he’s dead and we haven’t found the body yet,” Bull spoke as he looked over a knocked over ottoman, “Got some signs of a struggle here, here,” he points vaguely from the dim lighting, “and here.”

Harel followed the former spy’s indicators, staring down the upended furniture before her eyes settled on his last point. 

The fireplace. 

The same one from the vision.

“Why the fireplace?” Harel inquired, keeping her disquiet under chains.

Tapping his staff on the ground, Dorian brightened the flame, bringing the sleek metal nearer to the fireplace to shed light on it. The Ben-Hassrath’s eye was impeccable, noting a fine spray of blood near the dusty brick and marble opening.

Harel released the breath she was holding, unsure if she was relieved or not to see a lack of any real proof of Ellana’s presence. Grey hands run across the lip of the fireplace, collecting cold soot on her fingertips before she brings her hand torch closer. There’s nothing but dusty remnants of an old fire, burned wood toasted to black powder. 

“Something!” comes Cole’s muffled voice from upstairs, “Not dangerous but bad!”

Abandoning their downstairs search, the team moves up the stairs together to reach a wide-open door to Vicinius’ bedroom. Much like downstairs, the furniture is in a state with the bed pushed haphazardly to the side. 

“What the fuck...” Bull barely mumbles as he processes what’s in front of them.

Vicinus’ body is flanked by Cole who crouches next to the ice-cold corpse. There are gashes on the dead man's exposed skin with the pale gleam of his rib cage poking out from under his flesh; highlighted by the moonlight. He lies on his stomach, his arm propped against the wall with a bloodsoaked finger trailing from a word on the wall.

Scrawled in bold, rust-coloured lines is the name **CALPERNIA**.

The slight tilt of Cole’s hat is the only movement in the room before Harel steps forward, taking in the brutal sight. She treads softly over a scattered wardrobe before leaning down to inspect Vicinius’ corpse. 

“Clean slaughter,” comes Bull from his position by the door, “A little too clean if you ask me.”

Looting fallen foes is a normal affair for her, but Harel watches the cadaver in her huddled position, a hand at first resting against the man’s finery, then dipping a finger around the deep wound. Her index finger brushes against the porous bone of his spine as it meets his ribs before skirting along to where it met flesh. 

“Dry, hot pain, draining,” Cole whispers as he stares at the wound, “Digging then not, I choke on my blood before it’s taken,” he looks up, his moping blue eyes and face half-shrouded in shadow and silvery light, “There’s no blood inside of him.”

“Blood magic,” Harel grinds out, before wiping her fingers on the dead man’s cloak, “It’s always fucking blood magic,”

“And by Calpernia, no less,” Dorian says in a flat tone from behind her, “Though I suspect it isn’t the original Calpernia. Her bones would be dustier than a Chantry Mother’s naughty bits by now.” 

“Who’s Calpernia?” Harel queries as she stands up straight to look at the wall. 

The Tevinter mage hums a noise of thought for a moment while glancing over the journal he found before speaking, “The First Archon’s mother. Either Vicinius is stark raving mad or a blood mage took up her mantle and is perpetrating some _very nasty_ murders,” he looks over to Vicinius to make his point, “And I suppose with his dying breath, he wrote out his killer’s name with what little blood he had remaining. Good on him to make our job easier.”

The Qunari elf brings her hand up to squeeze her forehead as she thinks, her words are slow but adamant, “Sounds like a job for Leliana.”

The nightmare house held nothing but dust, blood and a name. Not a trace of Ellana remained but that vision linking her to the fireplace. Was that vision truly what it seemed? Was it just some fever-pitched mirage tied together from hope and shock? 

It felt so real though, the thrumming of the magic in her veins as the Rift closed, the manipulation of the Fade, the feeling of reality blending together with time. 

It reminded her of Redcliffe, of futures that would never happen.

Harel shook her head to clear her thoughts, making her peace with the house, allowing herself to accept the finality of death; secretly, there’s hope buried in her mind. 

Just to see Ellana again one more time.

Like a shadow chases light, Cole’s voice chased her thoughts, pulling them away to hear him speak. The boy scarecrow stands up slowly, the only sound being made was Dorian flicking the page of a found journal. 

“Here,” Cole says, holding out fragments of a blue crystal to the Inquisitor, “I found these while you were downstairs, they’re broken inside and out but it still talks if you listen carefully,” he holds the fractured stones in both palms as he brings it closer to Harel’s ear, “It’s quiet, quivering, questioning why it’s soul is speaking, fractured like water being split, making rain.”

The Qunari can’t hear anything from the stones but she accepts the items with a look of concern, noting how blood was crusting the cracks of each rock. 

Green eyes look back at the door where Bull kept watch in case something came up from behind, his training in full force as he squares his shoulders, waiting for something to come out of the darkness and attack his blind spot. 

“Always the Tevinter and never anyone else,” Dorian mutters from his current haunt, “Our dear Vicinius was slave selling scum apparently,” he holds the book up to catch the moonlight as he skims another page, “This appears to be his merchandising logbook. Maybe one of our lovely ladies in the War Room can make use of this, hmmm? Madame Cullen included, of course.”

There’s a small smile on the elf’s face from the quip but it fades quickly as she rolls the stones in her hand. There was curiosity in seeing what exactly those broken crystals were and she allowed that thought to fill her mind as she bade the room goodbye, hopefully, for the last time. 

All the while, as her boots thumped against the stairs, she wondered who Calpernia was; what she wanted.

And why was Ellana here, amongst a relic of Tevinter and one of its dead citizens? 

* * *

Harel would return in two days time. The interim, however, held the deft balance of the Inquisition by the throat. The day began as usual, with the many ravens cawing, the people rising with the sun and every soldier on guard, on patrol, on duty. 

What was not usual was the incident which hung on the lips of every messenger girl and serving boy. There weren’t many details regarding the situation but what little there was to know, was known.

Arl Siegmund of Ferelden, assaulted in Skyhold.

It was, of course, not absurdly odd that a poncy noble type would get walloped in the Herald’s Rest if he spoke out of line or behaved like an ass. What was odd was who people heard, in hazy rumours, did the deed.

_Lady Montilyet? Are you quite mad? She’s as harmless as a doe and sweeter than sugared honey._

It would remain in people’s minds but Leliana made sure that the rumour remained only in Skyhold, and quietly. Arl Siegmund was properly and ‘diplomatically’ dealt with by the Spymistress despite her preference to simply stick a knife in him.

He left without incident, surprised, angry but sufficiently intimidated so that he dared not speak a word of the scuffle without severe repercussions. 

It had been a quiet entry followed by the soft steps of armoured boots against the ground as Leliana made her way towards Josephine. The Antivan was in a chair by the fire instead of by her desk, her expression hidden behind the large furniture.

Leliana could see the side of her face peeking out from the edge of the chair’s backrest; orange light lending a glow to golden brown skin.

The fire lending its shine to the fresh tear tracks on her face.

“I am accustomed to threats,” Josephine mumbles as the Spymistress moves closer, “but the more he spoke ill, the angrier I became until…”

The clink of metal meeting stone is heard as Leliana kneels, resting her arms on the armrest and placing a comforting hand on a ruffled sleeve. There are no words as the Mistress fishes around in her pouch before retrieving her desired item, dabbing Josephine’s tears with a handkerchief. 

There is a small sniffle before she speaks again, allowing the Orlesian to continue her hovering, “One moment, I was listening to him -debating with him- the next, I was on top of him, clawing at him,” she stifles a sob, “Maker’s breath, the Inquisition’s reputat-”

“Forget about our reputation,” Leliana speaks harshly, “I’m more worried about you! Your temper has never once gone unchecked and your malaise is beyond troubling,” she lowers the cloth, her eyes tender but her words solid, “I should have taken the inkwell more seriously. You rarely eat or sleep anymore...”

The handkerchief moves downwards to brush against Josephine’s fingers, cleaning the small streaks of blood from her nails, only a trace amount. The Arl’s wounds would be no worse than cat scratches which was the story he’d be bringing home.

The thick outlines of kohl served well to hide the decay of her wellbeing. Josephine feels the cloth dig into a part of her hand still coated with dried blood; her silence dismissing Leliana’s worrying entirely. 

“I barely held a conversation with him,” Josephine spoke again as the cloth rubbed away the blood, “I became a mindless animal, Leli, all I did was scrap like a common thug. Even worse than a thug…”

There’s a faraway look in Josephine’s eyes, the layers of Asala-taar folding in on each other like a rose cinching tightly around its core. She is quiet in the din of the fire, her mouth unmoving, lips parted as if frozen, staring into the flames, unblinking and frozen in time. 

Leliana is careful with the swipes of her cloth before pocketing the material, allowing the Ambassador sometime before she speaks, “Josie?” she shakes the diplomat slightly, “Josie?”

“I have killed before, Leliana,” Josephine says softly, her words are sluggish and dissonant, “What if I kill again?”

Coming from Josephine, a staunch pacifist and harmless, soft-bodied noblewoman, the words are almost laughable but the situation was devoid of mirth. 

“You are no killer, Josie,” Leliana assuages.

There’s a short huff of indignant laughter from the Antivan as she dismisses the Orlesian’s words again, “Thedas’ secrets live within your hand,” grey hazel eyes continue looking at the fire, “We are both aware of what I have done in the past.”

Iron chainmail shifts as the Spymaster moves forward, wrapping her arms around the Antivan as best as she could from her low position. She squeezes her hard, the leather gloves squeak from the pressure as she presses her hooded head against a gold silk sleeve.

“And I stand by my words,” Leliana says quietly, her voice quavering, her glacial eyes watering ever so slightly as her stoic nature breaks, “ **You are no killer**.”

And so it was believed, as Skyhold, though questioning, had trouble presuming such a gentle soul could commit such an act. 

The rumour faded as nothing more than gossip passed from ear to ear, only dwelling in the minds of two who knew the truth.

Only one was haunted by the occurrence; so often preyed upon by her past, present and future. 

* * *

More often than not, the Inquisitor returned from her expeditions in the night. Though it was good for morale when all saw her pass through the gate, it was not a luxury time afforded. Though the trek from Val Royeaux was a less strenuous one than, say, the Hissing Wastes, it was still tiresome no matter the journey’s origin. Harel was grateful for the lack of aching in her body as she washed the dirt from her skin. She sat in the large wooden tub, leaning her head against the lip as she sunk deeper into the sudsy water. 

She received a missive nearing the end of her journey, in their last camp. Dusty vellum had been glanced at under her mage’s light all while trying to ignore Bull’s sleep-talking. Cole had curled up nearby, settling into his human form, sleeping lightly near the fire, his hat never once removed. 

She remembered the twitching of his leg as she read the letter detailing Josephine’s explosive incident. The sharp sting of worry continued echoing through her as Cole physically responded to her pain, even in his sleep. 

Now she soaked in the tub as if that would help ease her troubles and as comfortable as her position was, the worry multiplied, the problems piled up.

Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Harel breathed in the steam. The crystals were under Dagna’s care so at least one thing was looking up. Hopefully, those rocks would prove to be more than useless jewellery.

The tub began to release more steam as the water bubbled. Harel’s frustration was releasing heat into her bath, boiling the water slightly before stopping.

She took a deep breath to prevent her from scalding. 

_Mythal’s_ **_fucking_ ** _breastband._

* * *

There was a system set up for the nighttime. It was necessary after the many sleepless nights and death-yearning trips. Harel, at some point, would not be able to hold on to Josephine; so sleep deprived that she would simply lay unconscious. 

It was a prospect they could not allow to happen lest Josephine flung herself off the balcony.

Harel made her way up the stairs, peeking through the bannister posts as she did so, staring at her paramour who was engrossed in some novel. Still as beautiful as she left her, the Qunari watched Josephine in silence, ignoring all her woes and laying her full focus on the human curled up on the bed. Harel laughed inwardly as she stared at the worn cotton shirt which dwarfed the noblewoman in the material; her fingers plucking at the collar to keep it from slipping off entirely. 

But no sight could be so sweet without bitterness reasserting its taste. Leather bindings hung from each post, each shackle was plush with Highever Weave and Ram’s Wool while a good amount of slack made itself clear. Indeed, Harel couldn’t remain awake forever to grasp onto her love, so the failsafe was enacted so the sleeping Antivan could neither fall from thebedside nor sleepwalk to her grave. She could also undo the bindings when morning came but it was still a harrowing sight; her gilded prison shackles just another reminder of her worsening state. 

The Wolf was quiet as she walked forward, green eyes staring as Josephine turned a page before tucking a curtain of raven hair behind her ear.

Though she was silent, the Inquisitor was not wholly invisible; grey hazel eyes flicked up from the book before Josephine’s expression turned quickly from studious to jubilant. With a radiant smile, the diplomat leapt off her perch, abandoning her novel to run towards the Inquisitor. 

Acting quickly, Harel quickly moved away from the steps before she was nearly bowled over by the Antivan, lifting her into a spin till her feet were fully off the ground. Josephine squirmed as Harel plastered her with kisses; her neck, face, anywhere that could be touched felt the brush of her lips. A giggle erupted from the Antivan woman who wriggled from each ticklish swipe against her skin as she was crushed against the Inquisitor. Tawny arms wrapped around Harel’s shoulder as the elf supported her weight in both arms, pressing her head against Josephine’s shoulder as she breathed in.

Spicy, sweet like Seheron tea and boldly crisp like fresh parchment.

“I missed you,” Josephine muttered into white hair as Harel gripped tighter.

“Missed you too” The Qunari spoke against her skin, sending light shivers up Josephine’s spine.

Slowly, the Inquisitor released her hold on the good Ambassador, setting her down carefully before running her palms up her dusky arms, following the path to rest on her shoulders.

“How’re you feeling?” Harel said softly as she began massaging the pliable flesh under her fingers.

Instead of answering, Josephine melted into the touch, her eyelashes fluttering for a moment before she replied with a smile, “Better, so long as you continue doing that.”

The Qunari continued rubbing for a short while before stilling her hands, drawing a small whine from the Antivan woman in front of her. There’s a snort of laughter from the Inquisitor before she bends down to lay a chaste peck to her paramour’s forehead. 

And without warning, Harel took off towards the bed, rushing forward with the click of her night boots before jumping square on the mattress; the pliant cushioning springing up from the force of her landing. The novel flutters a few pages back as the mattress undulates; a smiling horned elf grins from her semi-prone position on top the sheets. 

A grey hand pats the space next to her, at first slow tapping then growing to frenzied drumming as the grin grows wider. 

Rolling her eyes, Josephine moves towards Harel but takes a different path, crawling up the already occupied bedside to lay on top the plucky Herald. Shifting herself up against the headboard, Harel opens her legs to accommodate Josephine, allowing her to rest her head against her chest as grey fingers dip into inky hair, admiring the silky strands. She feels gentle arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer as quiet breathing and the subtle heartbeats of two drowned out the clamour of any thoughts. 

The night felt far more peaceful than it had in a while. Josephine snuggled into Harel’s chest, her eyelids drooping as she continued passing her hand through her hair in careful motions, her nails scraping lightly against her head. But with every drop of slumber came the muted jolt of what was to follow.

It was torturous not being able to rest; maddening.

The Qunari’s eyes were glued to the restraints dangling from the bedposts, her heart heavy as it often was these days. Her hand travelled further as she brushed black hair, moving to the middle of Josephine’s back to swipe her finger against the dip of her spine. 

“If you’re not tired yet, I have a teeny little suggestion I’d like to make,” Harel whispers, stirring the sleepy Antivan from her foggy state, “Something...different.”

A deep breath was taken as Harel felt Josephine’s chest press against her as she inhaled; a deep sigh followed quickly after.

Removing her arms, Harel watched as Josephine rolled onto the other bedside, somehow retaining her grace and not catching her long hair underneath her mid-roll. The movement, however, caused a bit too much ruckus, forcing the once unbothered novel to launch itself off the mattress, landing with a thump. There was no doubt the pages were creased.

A second passed.

Harel looked over to Josephine who remained comfortable in her skin without any need to enforce propriety -no need for a mask-, making her emotions on the fallen book known with one rankled word.

**_Merda._ **

* * *

“I honestly thought your proposal would have us remain in bed,” Josephine says as she burrows into the cloak, “I am becoming a human _glacier_.”

The pair walked the halls of Skyhold till they reached the Garden, a favourite spot of Harel’s and more recently, Josephine. That decision may have something to do with a certain Qunari elf sneaking her away for ‘important meetings’ in the gazebo but she didn’t mind this influence at all. 

That plus the garden was truly one of the more serene parts of Skyhold; the herb plot was always blooming with some exotic plant while the grounds were a splash of colour and beauty amidst the bleak greys and blues of the mountainside. 

A word, so often said by the Inquisitor, was the best way to describe the area.

_Kost._

Harel continued walking with Josephine till they both stood in the middle of the garden, the only light came from the moon and many stars forming a glittering dome overhead. 

“I’m gonna ask you to do something you’re not gonna like,” Harel said sheepishly, plucking the thick fur of Josephine’s cloak. 

Words were not necessary as the Antivan realized what the Inquisitor meant, her grey eyes narrowing as she nestled further into the cloak.

“It is _freezing_!” came a muffled retort from within the furry coat.

“And I’m asking you to trust me, Kadan.” Harel replies with her expression sweet like a Druffalo; a face Josephine always found hard to resist. 

There’s a small pause for deliberation before, hesitantly, dusky little fingers appear from the fastened opening of her cloak to undo the fabric. Harel assists with the ties, plucking at the knots till Josephine is left hugging herself and shivering in the cold breeze with only the thin cotton shirt to protect her.

“One more second,” Harel rushes as she flicks both wrists with the coat in hand, allowing it to flutter down to the ground as plush seating.

Undoing her own cloak, the Qunari elf repeats her movements with haste before beckoning the trembling noblewoman to take a seat. Holding out her hand, Harel envelops Josephine’s own, giving her purchase as she lowers herself onto the fur coat. A rough stream of air blows from the mountains, causing the trees to rustle and Josephine’s hair to billow past her face like curling, inky fingers spreading in water. 

Harel takes a seat before pulling her cold paramour into a hug, breathing in the scent of Seheron tea and parchment before she begins to feel the gentle hum of magic across her skin. She thinks of hearths -pushing away the sight of Vicinius’ home- and comfort. 

Revelling in love, the horned elf summons her magic to weave outside and above her like a barrier, like a static cage made of fire, like a remnant of Ellana’s skill with flames with the pure purpose to cradle in warmth. 

Like a memory from Haven, before the complications of an ever stressful life, a pocket of heat is created, sipping on Harel’s mana as two young lovers were encompassed by a gentle cage which radiated like an invisible sun.

A shield from the ice; a reprieve from the world. 

With great care, Harel puts her weight against Josephine, pulling them both down against the soft coats, her eyes peeking up from their restful space to glance up at the stars. She shifts upwards, just a little, to prevent her horns from catching the material as they both stare up at the celestial gems adorning Thedas’ skies. 

“That,” Harel whispers, her hand reaching up to trace a column of stars, “Is Bellitanus, the Maiden,” she pauses to finish tracing the stars, her finger lighting up with a trail of mana to complete the image, “There are these weird orbs all across Thedas with stuff about the constellations,” there’s quiet awe in her voice, “Every time I see one, I learn something new.”

Josephine hums in approval, taking in the new information before she moves her hand up to meet Harel’s clasping her wrist to point elsewhere.

“It has been years since I considered the stars,” Josephine replies, her voice as relaxed as the lazy swipes of Harel’s hand, “though I seem to recall this, Satinalis,” the image of a man playing the lyre shines in sharp lines of blue mana, “It is related to Satinalia, a holiday in Antiva,” she pauses, her thumb brushing a scar on the edge of Harel’s palm, “One of my father’s many passions is astronomy. He would bring me outside on a clear night to watch the stars...despite my disinterest in them as a child.”

“Do you like them more now?” Harel queries, as she watches the thin lines of mana fade into the sky.

A small laugh turns into a sentence, “I am mostly ambivalent to constellations, but with you,” she turns her head to kiss the Qunari’s forehead gently, “I am willing to learn.”

It is a sweet silence punctured by small whispers, small laughs with the tingle of magic surrounding the two as Harel places her arm beneath Josephine’s head; their eyes focused on the stars, their hearts focused on each other.

It is only until a hand on Harel’s chest relaxes, a leg is wound around hers. Quiet breathing, not heavy enough for deep sleep nor light enough for rousing, is the signal to return. Harel is careful to extract her arm, sliding her skin against black hair, supporting her paramour's head until she’s safely rested on the coat. Sensing a lack of Qunari elf, the Ambassador snuggles into the furs, curling herself slightly to soak up the remnant warmth. 

Dusting out her own cloak, Harel lays the cleaner side over Josephine, sandwiching her between two plush slabs before hoisting her up. There’s a quiet sigh as she burrows into Harel’s chest, unaware of being moved through the empty halls of the Keep. 

There is only peace when they ascend the stairs, the fire still quietly crackling, devoid of menace.

She’s laid upon the sheets and expertly moved off the cloaks, the cotton shirt follows suit, rolled up to Josephine’s navel due to the jostling, exposing lightly frilled smallclothes which makes Harel hold back a soft snort. 

No matter how often she saw them, she just couldn’t keep a straight face.

Grey fingers skated along the soft, golden-brown skin along the Antivan’s thighs before plucking the shirt down; both to spare her of temptation and to ward off the nightly chill. 

An iota of strain rests upon the Inquisitor’s brow as she clasps the leather shackles on each of Josephine’s limbs; her mind awash memories of the quiet squeak of leather, the thrashing of sheets, the whimpering turned shouting, the crying, pleading, clawing to escape.

And such an escape would lead her stumbling forward to outrun death, only to leap into its arms. 

Nothing helped. Not even a sleeping draught.

She brushed a few black curls behind her sleeping lover’s ear, as she listened to the fire, the crackle of wood toasting under its smouldering paw giving her pause. 

* * *

The matters of Corypheus were of extreme importance. It was of highest priority to sort out anything that related even minutely to him. Every morsel of knowledge that could be found on him could be used; any scraps of intel was vital as it pieced together the wretched canvas of his plans. The Spymaster had looked at every missive scattered across her table, every captured Ventatori, every still sane Templar like a spider weaving a web, connecting clues and possible leads.

And Harel, from her time in Val Royeaux, came upon a name, lost to time only to resurface on the lips of her most recent Venatori prisoner. 

**Calpernia** he had spoken after spitting out three of his teeth, his lips bruised and split, his eyes missing from his head after the last torture session. 

Fen’Harel did not know the depths of what went on in the ruins of Haven; a chamber of sickly penance was unearthed to lay waste to any enemy useful and foolish enough to be caught in the Nightingale’s talons. 

She didn’t need to know; even a Spymaster must have her secrets, all for a good cause, is what she believed. 

Calpernia led the Venatori, was what her charge spoke with his dying breaths, Calpernia was Corpypheus’ champion should Samson fail. 

Calpernia was a devious, cruel and powerful mage with abilities that held her aloft against the test of time.

Samson was the sword clashing against a shield but Calpernia was the hidden blade wedged in one’s back; Corypheus’ most devout monster who held no care for the sanctity of life. 

The dagger in her glove sat uncomfortably against her skin for once as she tried to drown out the cawing of birds in the Rookery. The yellow-orange lights of the Library aided her sight by calming her mind; a stark difference to the dim, musty chill of her cobblestone cage. Baron Plucky fluttered from his nest, passing over her head before landing on Leliana’s shoulder. He nuzzled against her hood, making low squawks, closing his eyes as he lay against her. 

Plucky sensed Leliana’s disquiet though he knew not what went on in her head, despite his perception. 

Looking up from her missives, the Spymaster stared ahead, tired but unable to rest due to the work.

That’s what she kept telling herself, the work was keeping her awake.

And much like every other day, a fraction of a second would reveal something else to her. Though wearing leather gloves, she would look down at her hands to see them uncovered, stained with blood, stained with gore and in her palms, a dead, flaking rose.

She’d shake her head and all would be as it was.

Normal, her gloved hands against the table; reminding herself she was tired, that it was a trick of the mind.

Reminding herself that she only did the things she did to push forward the good work of the Inquisition even as she held her tongue, realizing quietly in the back of her mind that the descriptions of Calpernia could easily be applied to herself.

* * *

Sitting cross-legged, Harel hunched over just a bit as she stared at Dagna’s hands. Nimble, short fingers easily ran over the combined crystals, touching them as if she understood them; felt them in her blood. 

The crusted blood had been long since cleaned away, the cracks were only present as hairline fractures along the cobalt stone. 

A Dwarven memory crystal, it was called, apparently; information that Harel listened to eagerly, nodding with every explanation Dagna could give.

“It’s a liiiiitle touchy,” the Dwarf said as she continued fiddling with the crystal, “See here? That part’s been crushed up more than Harrit’s anvil,” a low grunt comes from the forgemaster, “WHICH I APOLOGIZED FOR! Sheesh,” she holds up the crystal in her palm, four all finger’s bracing its sides, “But yea, it should maybe probably hopefully work. Maybe.”

Harel sits up before pushing her hand against the cold ground, raising herself to her full height which Dagna doesn’t leave unnoticed.

“I keep forgetting you’re super tall,” Dagna bubbles, her attention directed to Harel, “then again, when you’re my height, everyone’s tall. You’re just uh, extra.”

“Extra sounds like me,” Harel says playfully as she walks towards Dagna, “People look at my face and think elf and then I straighten up and BOOM Qunari, it’s fucking priceless.”

“You’d think they’d notice the horns first,” Dagna replies, placing the crystal in a small, weird holder. 

“They’re too busy trying to picture my parents, to be very honest,” the Qunari elf replies, her head tilting in the direction of the memory stone, “So uh, what’re we looking for.”

There’s a buzzing coming from the crystal as it glows a little, shaking slightly in its holder as it collects energy.

“AHA!” Dagna exclaims as she moves around the crystal.

And so said, so done, the laws of jinx were enacted as the crystal immediately rattled before shorting out entirely. 

“Oh for the love of!” the chipper Dwarf came again as she jostled the crystal with a small iron rod -her magic poking stick as she liked to call it-, “Branka’s Behind, of course it fizzles just when I need it to work!” she mutters angrily. 

The Inquisitor watches on as Dagna continues jabbing the crystal with hopefully, some form of expertise. 

“You do realize there’s no rush, I’d rather that thing works properly in a few days than blow the fuck up right now,” she says in an attempt to pacify the Arcanist. 

The sound of a door closing echoes through the Undercroft as the entrant makes their presence known, “Need I remind you of your rapidly approaching expedition to the Arbor Wilds, Inquisitor. Time is of the essence.” 

Icy cold nausea coiled in Harel’s stomach as she was reminded of the biggest worry on her plate; _yes, you absolutely did have to_ **_fucking_ ** _remind me._

Leliana moved quickly past Harritt before quickly moving into the furthest part of the Forge, her gaze never once taken off Dagna’s frantic prodding of the memory crystal.

“Almost got it,” Dagna says with a minor tremor to her voice, an obvious fear of the Spymaster present.

Harel folds her arms as she looks towards the Mistress; though she is often pale as a ghost and just as silent, she looks odd. There’s a certain harshness to her face, her expression drawn and rigid, wholly unfriendly.

She looks more and more like the Left Hand of the Divine, unbothered by the cold of Haven as she nearly sends a treasured turncoat scout to his demise. Butler was his name, Harel recalls, remembering her words to the Orlesian.

Wondering if they have simply been ignored after all this time. A pity too, as Leliana seemed to be softening so easily these days; their time in the Rookery where the Mistress ruffled her hair, a fond memory. 

Bright sparks of blue fizzled from the stone, and before anyone could react, a wretched shadow appeared before them, standing far too tall, scaring Harritt into running towards the storage container. 

The Spymaster drew her concealed dagger as the apparition of Corypheus hovered around them.

Harel was still, her arms unraised, her mouth open slightly, green eyes widening slowly. 

_“The Nightmare has performed its part,” Corypheus spoke in his scraping, gravelly voice, “And Samson will soon be ready to stand at my side. What have you brought to me, Pet.”_

_Kneeling on the ground, head bowed to their master, the addressed does not move until they are called, raising their eyes from the submissive position to look upon their God._

_“I will bring you the Inquisition, my King,” Ellana says, a wicked smile on her face, “And with your blessing, I wish to reap my reward,”_

_The Magister holds out his clawed hand in emphasis to the elf, “In due time you will have your spoils. Tell me of the Entwining; will the power enact my will when I call upon you.”_

_Ellana nods sharply, her eyes shining with the new light despite the blue tinge, “Yes my Lord, the Nightmare and Envy has shown me the way, I have since infected your enemies,” her grins grows wider, “Fen’Harel’s harlot will be my first. She writhes with pain and guilt as we speak, feeding my ability. The suffering they experience is divine.”_

_Her Dirthamen Valaslin is clear, even in the cerulean blur of the crystal's projection; it is truly Ellana Lavellan with no facsimile, no simulacrum._

_It is her in the flesh._

_She looks up at the Elder One, her eyes brimming with devotion, "How do you slay an insurmountable beast such as this Inquisition?" she speaks in rhetoric, "You must sever its tongue so that it may not cry out for aid. You must bind its limbs so that it cannot flee, cannot fight. You must blind it so it lingers in the darkness, as sightless as bats in the sunlight. Then, as it lays senseless in its own filth, you take its joy, its reason for life and happiness, so that it is crushed by despair without dirtying a blade."_

_Corypheus laughs like the low cracks of bones breaking, his voice carrying the vile torment of Ages, “A pitiful descendant of slave refuse has proven more bloodthirsty and innovative than most of my own modern countrymen,” he curls his finger up, beckoning her to rise, “Rise, Calpernia, rise and continue performing as your God wishes. Your mantle as a Trauma Demon will be carved into my throne in the Black City; in the annals of history.”_

_“And my reward?” Ellana queries as she rises slowly._

_The God pretender growls quietly, his patience for his pet’s tenacity constantly tested._

_“The false deity of the Inquisition will be your task where Erimond failed; Fen’Harel shall be your thrall.”_

There are no words to describe Harel’s pain as she backs against the table, her eyes watering in shock and horror. 

There is only one sound, the quiet whimper of a Qunari elf, a clarion amidst the dissipating blue light as she collapses to the ground. 

Her legs stretched before her, she can’t see Dagna nor Leliana rush to her aid; she doesn’t faint, she is simply overcome. 

And once more, The Wolf feels like a pup, where a stone is thrown at her in a coastal Dalish camp, where her footprints are as small as her hands. Where she feels Ellana’s rough palm against her calf, healing her wounds, pressing memory upon memory of Ellana’s love upon her.

As if to wake her from this gouging sight of Ellana Lavellan; the mother she always wanted, now the enemy she had to face. In the way of all wishes, it came true in a twisted fashion. The hope to see Ellana once more, to hope she still lived had been made reality.

But at a terrible, terrible cost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOTDAHM
> 
> Reader: Mage route or Templar Route?  
> WH4T: Yes.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading :)
> 
> Things are about to get super busy for me so I might be away for a bit like last time but just remember, I'll be back with more.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey you, yes you. I just wanted to say thanks for coming. It's been increasingly harder for me to write because life continues to kick me directly in my bad bits (plus my mental health is always looking to eat my ass) however, doing this makes me feel good (despite the fact I burn out sometimes too lol). 
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you, to everyone, for reading.
> 
> Masterlist of all the songs I listen to while writing that tend to affect the chapters lol:
> 
> [The Crane Wives-Ribs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uoaqvA-y6M)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-The Moon Will Sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwhec-xnWfY)
> 
> [The Oh Hellos-Where Is Your Rider](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Noz360Clhgg)
> 
> [AURORA-Exist For Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWE1jNVAfT8)
> 
> [Hozier's "NFWMB," but by a traveling bard weaving you a tale in exchange for shelter from the storm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTdR2jCtiVk)
> 
> [Tamino-Persephone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeaBJfzTKl8)
> 
> [Tamino-Indigo Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wVTmlD86a8)
> 
> [Hozier-Would That I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsu5ZZwzFyk)
> 
> [Hozier-As It Was](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7q-4mfl_s4)
> 
> [Poets of the Fall-Sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OlshWg3isxQ)
> 
> [Ren x Chinchilla-How To Be Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3IhoPpHYXjo)
> 
> [Ren-Heretic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrpzCUjvM_M)
> 
> [The Shins-A Comet Appears](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qA7o5NQfQ7Y)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-Never Love an Anchor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y07xArvIvjw)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-Here I Am](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_Ju-P8aQJ8)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-Curses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Gopg80VXwc)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-The Garden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IxgQklj3_Y)
> 
> [Delta Rae-Bottom of the River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vUTR5890t2o)
> 
> [Ashley Serena-My Jolly Sailor Bold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tPLodwT58nE)
> 
> [The Crane Wives-New Discovery](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_P7aY0CBdFs)
> 
> [Gregory Alan Isakov-Words](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFw7AaBxatA)
> 
> [Poets of the Fall feat. Triosis-Rebirth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HltxMawzfnw)
> 
> [Poets of the Fall feat. Triosis- Carnival of Rust](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM0J5kRMGaw)
> 
> [Poets of the Fall-Cradled in Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=caOLcgr028A)
> 
> [Tamino-Cigar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi-xgdKIIxo)
> 
> [Gareth Fernandez-Achilles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7g0NE4I95Q)
> 
> [Poets of the Fall-Love Will Come To You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1YK-qR7ApE)
> 
> [glass animals-mama's gun//slowed down & becoming insane by the end of the video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0i7Ur9bxfU)
> 
> [Black Hill & Silent Island-Tales of the night forest](https://youtu.be/_GV5_CpaybU)


End file.
